


the making, breaking, and remaking of sam winchester

by iamremy, orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Angst, Friends to Enemies to Lovers, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Making Up, Sam Winchester and Mental Health Issues, Sam and Castiel being badass together, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-05 06:05:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5364203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamremy/pseuds/iamremy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Sam Winchester and Cas - two detectives who haven't spoken in a year, and are both now assigned to the same case. As partners. It's not a question of if there is going to be a huge blowout, but a question of when. Especially because Sam doesn't think he can ever let go of past transgressions against him, and Cas isn't helping any by pushing the subject.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Whew, here it finally is, after quite a few days of laboring, reading and rereading. Before we go on, though, some thanks and disclaimers are in order.
> 
> Thanks to [Pooja](http://winchesterpooja.tumblr.com) for telling me about this and convincing me to sign up, and [Sanjana](http://spnxbookworm.tumblr.com) for supporting me throughout. A metric fuckton of thanks to my beta [Dri](http://sxviorsam.tumblr.com) \- I cannot thank you enough for all of your feedback and help during the writing of this. Dri has done her level best to deal with all issues with this story, so if you still find typos and errors, that's all on me. Thanks again to Pooja, who provided free medical advice and feedback as well!
> 
> Special thanks to my artist [juniperraso](http://juniperraso.livejournal.com/) for the amazing, gorgeous, lovely pieces of art that she has contributed to the story. It is so much better for the art, and I can never thank you enough.
> 
> Now that that's done with, the disclaimers:  
> 1\. I know exactly jack shit about police procedures outside of TV shows. I just made it up as I went along. Don't believe anything you read.  
> 2\. Usually, when people are injured as Sam has been, they don't make it too far. I asked Pooja, and she said that they're too weak and in too much pain to do what he does. So at first I considered changing it, but then I decided, hey, if anyone can do it, Sam BAMF Winchester can. So, you know, don't believe any medical shit you read here either. (Sorry, Pooja.)
> 
> All right then - I hope you people enjoy the story as much as I did writing it. Thank you so much.
> 
> [Art Masterpost](http://juniperraso.livejournal.com/599.html)

**the making, breaking, and remaking of sam winchester**  
**story:** iamremy  
**art:** juniperraso

**prologue**

The white of Sam’s shirt is soaking up his blood rapidly, darkening to crimson and then saturated maroon as he presses his hand to his abdomen in a vain attempt to stem the flow of blood. He knows it’s a useless endeavor, has known it the minute he got shot, and the fact is driven home by the blood dribbling out over his fingers and showing no signs of slowing down. At this rate he’ll be dead in minutes.

He coughs, feeling the hot, wet spray of blood on his lips, and tries to focus on Cas, who’s kneeling next to him, looking a mixture of desperate, panicked, and torn. “Cas,” he manages to say, his words coming out thick because of the blood in his mouth, holy shit, _there is so much of it_ and it’s making saying a few words into a real chore. “Go.”

“I can’t leave you—” Cas protests, but Sam cuts him off.

“You _have_ to,” he wheezes, his breath coming in short puffs as it feels like his lungs have lost their ability to expand and take in enough air. “We’ve got this far… we can’t give up now.”

“But Sam,” Cas tries again, looking like he wants to do nothing more than stay even though he knows that Sam is right.

“ _Go_ ,” Sam repeats, putting as much emphasis into the word as is possible when bleeding to death. “Don’t… don’t make this – all we did – don’t make it worthless.”

It’s an order wrapped in a plea, and no one has never been able to say no to Sam when he looks this earnest. Cas is no exception.

“I’ll be back for you,” he tells Sam as he stands. “Hang on, Sam!” He takes off at a run then, his gun loaded and at the ready, and Sam doesn’t take his eyes off him until he’s out of sight and his footsteps have receded into heavy silence.

They both know that Sam will be dead by the time Cas makes it back to him.


	2. Chapter One

**chapter one**

It was a slow day at the office when the call came. Sam was at his desk, sipping his coffee and going over some paperwork, and occasionally texting Dean about something or the other. He’d come into work that morning fully expecting that nothing would happen, and with noon looming on the horizon and nothing more exciting than a stubborn stapler having come his way, it seemed that the day was going to meet his expectations.

Technically he was supposed to be going over the casefile that Chief Singer had assigned him a couple of days earlier, but he was already finished with it. He had been following the case closely even before that, so there was nothing in the file that he didn’t already know. Plus, Bobby had only told him to _read_ it, which he’d done. He knew he was smart, but he also knew that if an entire team of detectives hadn’t been able to get something new from it, he probably wasn’t going to, either.

The case, simply put, was thus – there seemed to be a serial killer in town, some psychopath (they were rarely ever anything else) who had a penchant for targeting children and expecting parents (as far as they could tell, he didn’t discriminate between pregnant couples and couples going through the adoption process); had a fondness for outdated and old tools that moonlighted as torture instruments; and absolutely gave no shits that he left the _messiest_ crime scenes behind. The only clue they had to his identity was his version of a calling card – a lock of black hair tied in a bottle-green ribbon, enclosed in the hand of whichever unfortunate person had been his latest target. Closer examination showed that the hair wasn’t real, probably came from a doll or a wig or something. That had been a relief, that at least he wasn’t chopping off victims’ hair like some grotesque version of a present.

There had been twelve victims so far, and by now the media was calling for blood, and also for Bobby to hand in his resignation and retire with dignity – or as much as was possible when every major channel in the city had decided he was senile, deluded and unfit for duty. The man did his best to ignore it, but there was no doubt at all that the pressure was building and if the case wasn’t solved soon, he was going to lose his job. And if it came to that, there would definitely be no dignity involved. As a result, the case was shifted to top priority for the entire department, and Bobby had his best men and women on it.

 _What’s for dinner?_ Sam texted Dean, before putting his phone aside and doodling on the corner of a Post-It as he idly read through the sheets before him. He’d gone over the casefile twice now and found nothing new; in fact, terrible as it sounded even inside his own head, he was losing interest. There was nothing to be gleaned from this; he already knew all that there was to know.

 _Chinese takeout_ , Dean replied a few minutes later. Then, a moment later, _we’re out of beer, get a couple of 6-packs on your way home._

 _Will do_ , Sam texted. _Now shoo, I’m working._

_You texted me first, bitch. And please, I’m working too._

_Sure, jerk, if sitting at your desk all day YouTubing cartoon porn is considered working._

_It’s hentai, you miserable ass._

He put his phone aside just as Charlie came to stand by his desk, grinning. “What’s up, nerd?” she asked, leaning against his desk and shoving her hands into her pockets. “You read the file Chief asked you to?”

“Yeah, I did,” Sam told her. “And I got a fat load of bupkis. What about you? Anything to add?”

She shrugged. “Nah. There’s nothing new so far. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s lying low, biding his time.”

Sam frowned. “That’s not very reassuring. Implies that he’s waiting for an opportunity to cause more mayhem than is usual.”

“We’ll deal with it if it happens,” sighed Charlie. “Not like we can stop him or anything, though it’s not from lack of trying. Even as we speak, Cas and Gabe are investigating this old building complex downtown where someone claims they heard screaming.”

“Think it was him?” Sam asked, his entire body tensing slightly as it always did at the mention of Cas.

If Charlie noticed (and she definitely did, perceptive as she was), she didn’t call him out on it, to his relief. “Could be. Guess we’ll know soon, huh?”

“Hmm,” hummed Sam, deep in thought as he ran over the casefile once more in his mind. “Was it an anonymous tip?”

“Yeah,” confirmed Charlie. “People don’t usually like to attach their names to this kind of thing, you know.”

“What if it was him?” wondered Sam. “What if it’s a trap?”

Charlie’s brow furrowed. “You think he called just so someone would come investigate? But why?”

“Maybe we’re getting close,” guessed Sam.

“How? We don’t have a whole lot except for an MO and twelve bodies,” Charlie pointed out.

“Whatever it is,” Sam said, an uneasy feeling now making itself known in the pit of his stomach, “we need to go tell Bobby. We’ll figure out the details later.”

Charlie nodded. “Okay.”

Sam stood, shoving his phone in his pocket and making his way to Bobby’s office, Charlie right behind him. He could see their boss through the glass doors, pacing up and down with a tense expression on his weathered face. There was a mess of papers on his desk, and his chair was quite a distance from it, as if he’d gotten up very abruptly and left the chair to wheel off to wherever. Sam couldn’t help but feel a jolt of sympathy. Bobby had all but raised him and Dean after their parents died, and it hurt Sam to see his father figure like this.

“Hey, Bobby?” he said, pushing the door open and poking his head in. Bobby blinked and stopped pacing, looking expectantly at Sam. It indicated a lot about his stress levels that the normally over-vigilant man hadn’t even seen them coming.

“Yeah?”

“Charlie and I needed to talk to you,” Sam said, entering the office with Charlie in tow. “It’s urgent.”

Bobby waved a hand at them to go on.

“That call that Cas and Gabe went out on,” Sam began, ignoring the twinge in his chest at having to say Cas’s name, “we think it could be a trap.”

Bobby came to full attention, narrowing his eyes at the both of them. “And what makes ya say that?”

“Sir, it was an anonymous tip that called in the screaming,” Charlie said, fidgeting a little as she spoke. “It’s a very isolated area, what are the odds that someone just happened to be passing by? Sir, what if the perp called just to get someone to go down there, right into a trap?”

“Why would he do that?” inquired Bobby, looking from Charlie to Sam and then back again.

“Could be we’re getting close to him,” Sam suggested. “It could be making him nervous.”

“How the hell would he know if we’re gettin’ close?” demanded Bobby.

“The last crime scene,” Sam said, and it felt like a lightbulb had flickered on inside his head. He took a moment to collect his thoughts and rearrange them, and then went on, “Bobby, the blood on the vic was still fresh when we got there. Coroner’s report said she’d been dead for just a few minutes when we found her. We missed him by a very small margin, and he knows it. He’s probably going to try to send us a message, warn us off somehow. We can’t let him succeed, Bobby.”

Bobby sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. “You sure, boy?”

Sam nodded, jaw set. “Yeah, as much as I can be. Bobby, it’s a trap. We’ve got to let Cas and Gabe know, otherwise it won’t end well for them. This guy is a _murderer_ , he has no limits. There’s no telling what he will do to them if he gets his hands on them.”

“All right,” agreed Bobby. “But Sam, if yer wrong and we miss somethin’—”

“He’s not wrong,” interjected Charlie. “At least, I don’t think he is,” she amended hastily at Bobby’s expression.

“Okay, I’ll make the call,” decided Bobby. “You two stay here.”

He’d just moved towards his desk, however, when his radio crackled to life in a burst of static, and then a panicked voice. “HQ, this is Cas. I have only just managed to escape our perp, and I’m on my way to the station. Over.”

Bobby strode over the rest of the way to the desk and picked up the communication unit. “Cas, this is Chief Singer,” he barked. “Come in. What’s goin’ on?”

There was a pause, and then Cas replied, “It was a trap, sir. We walked right into a trap.”

Sam and Charlie exchanged uneasy looks; this was one of those times when Sam absolutely hated being right. Bobby glanced up at them, his lips pressed into a tight line, before returning to the comm unit. “Where’s Gabriel?” he demanded.

The silence that followed over the radio confirmed their worst fears even before Cas said, in a voice that seemed like he was forcing himself to keep calm, “He didn’t make it, sir.”

Bobby took in a deep breath, and then exhaled slowly, as if willing himself not to start throwing things. “Fuck,” he finally said, voice ragged. “Why didn’t ya call for backup?”

“Broke my shoulder comm during the fight, sir,” was Cas’s reply. “I only just managed to get into the cruiser before he could shoot me in the head.”

“Where are ya now?”

“Ten blocks out, sir. I should be here soon.”

Bobby nodded, and then, clearly remembering that Cas couldn’t see him, said, “All right. Hurry it up.”

He put the comm down and looked up at Charlie and Sam, suddenly looking ten years older. “Well, shit,” he said wearily. “This is one o’ those times I really wish you were wrong, son.”

Sam nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Yeah, me too, Bobby.”

Charlie’s face was white as a sheet, her eyes swimming with tears. “We were too late,” she said hoarsely. “Fuck.”

“Don’t go blaming yourself, girl,” Bobby said tiredly. “Ain’t nothing any of us could have done. You two figured it out, though, and that’s sayin’ something.”

“We were too late,” Sam pointed out. He could feel the beginnings of a headache, his head throbbing dully and showing every sign of developing into a full-blown migraine later. Maybe if he’d paid more attention to the case, or to what was going on in the office, maybe if he hadn’t been so caught up in bantering with Dean over text—

“Sam.” Bobby’s voice cut into his thoughts. “Don’t you blame yourself either, boy, or I will put my boot up your behind. It ain’t yer fault.”

“Bobby—” began Sam.

“I don’t want to hear it,” said the chief firmly. “That’s an order, boy.”

Sam swallowed again, and nodded. Beside him, Charlie was crying silently, tears running down her face. With a sigh Sam wrapped his arms around her, and she readily turned into the embrace, pressing her face into his chest. She’d been good friends with Gabriel, Sam knew, ever since she’d joined the force, and his death, sudden as it was, had hit her hard. It was made a thousand times worse with the knowledge that if they’d been a few minutes faster on the uptake, Gabriel might not have died.

Sam tightened his arms around her and rubbed soothing circles into her back, the way Dean always used to do for him when they were kids. All of a sudden it felt like the day couldn’t end soon enough – all Sam wanted to do was go home and collapse into bed and let Dean take care of him. He hadn’t been particularly fond of Gabriel – a long and colorful history there, for sure – but that didn’t mean that Gabriel’s death hadn’t upset him as well.

“God,” Charlie muttered, breaking apart and wiping her face with the sleeve of her colorful hoodie. She was the one cop who refused to wear the usual blacks and grays and beiges until she absolutely had to, insisting that they brought her mood down and she would wear bright colors and would love to see anyone try to stop her. The memory brought the tiniest of smiles to Sam’s face, but it was gone a second later.

He looked away from Charlie’s blotchy face and red nose to see Bobby sitting at his desk with his head in his hands, no doubt apprehensive over the clusterfuck that would follow, the cherry on top of a truly upsetting event. Bobby glanced up at Sam and Charlie, and sighed. “Why don’t ya take the rest o’ the day off, kid?” he said to Charlie, voice uncharacteristically gentle, a radical departure from his usual gruff brand of tough love. “Go home and rest.”

She nodded and hiccupped. “Okay, sir,” she said shakily.

“I’d tell ya to take the entire week off, but we need ya here,” Bobby said regretfully – another uncharacteristic thing. If Bobby ever regretted anything, he took great care not to let it show to anyone that wasn’t Sam, Dean or his best friend Rufus.

“It’s okay,” Charlie replied, attempting a smile in Bobby’s direction that looked more like a pained grimace than anything else. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning, sir.”

Bobby nodded. “Take care, kid.”

Sam waited till she had left, and then sank down in one of the chairs in front of Bobby’s desk. “Shit,” he said wearily.

“Shit,” agreed Bobby in the same tone. “I’d tell ya to go home and rest too, but I need ya here for just a while more. We need to talk to Cas.”

“Do I have to?” asked Sam, perfectly aware that he sounded like a petulant child and completely incapable of summoning the energy required to give a shit.

“Yeah, idjit,” Bobby replied. “You do. I know the two o’ you got history, and not the good kind, but I need ya to let go o’ that for a while, ya hear? This is bigger than whatever issues ya got.”

“Bobby,” Sam began tiredly, but just then the door opened and Cas staggered in, looking like he had just been through a meat grinder – clothes torn and bloody, lacerations visible on his skin and face, his gait irregular. He limped to the desk and collapsed in the other chair, right across from Sam, and closed his eyes.

“Jesus, boy, you look like crap,” Bobby said roughly, getting out of his chair to get a first aid kit from a drawer.

Cas caught the kit Bobby threw at him, and said, voice hoarse, “Gabriel is dead, Chief. I couldn’t save him.”

“What happened?” asked Bobby, returning to his chair.

Cas looked uncertainly at Sam, who stared back for a moment before shifting his gaze to a particularly fascinating pattern in the grain of Bobby’s polished oak desk.

“It’s all right, he’s here ‘cause I said so,” Bobby said. “Now tell me what happened, Cas.”

Cas took a deep breath, as if bracing himself, and began the story.

They’d received the anonymous 911 call while on patrol, just before ten, and had gone to check it out. They had arrived at the abandoned building complex to find it eerily silent, with nothing to show that a struggle had taken place, or anything else had happened that warranted screaming. Uneasy but curious, they’d decided to check it out anyway, for their peace of mind if nothing else.

The building had been quiet and empty, just as expected, but when they’d gotten down to the basement, they’d found a tall, gangly man with thinning black hair and cold, cold eyes waiting for them with a wide grin on his face. Before either of them could so much as bat an eyelash, he’d shot Gabriel point-blank in the head and begun advancing towards Cas, who, in his shock, had dropped his weapon and was fumbling with his shoulder radio.

It shattered in the ensuing fight; the man was strong, despite his appearance, and faster than anyone else that Cas had ever encountered. He also seemed completely immune to feeling any kind of pain, and when Cas realized that he was simply tiring himself out – his attempts to hurt the man were failing miserably – he tried to incapacitate the man just long enough to be able to escape.

He did manage, only just barely getting into the cruiser and speeding away, the bullet that the man shot at him missing only by a couple of inches.

“And that’s not all,” Cas said then, reaching the end of his story. “When I was on my way up to your office, I found this in my pocket.”

Sam knew what it was going to be even before Cas pulled out the lock of artificial hair from his pocket and deposited it on Bobby’s desk. “He must have slipped it in while you were fighting,” he guessed.

Cas blinked at him, as if only just realizing that he was there too. “Yes,” was all he said.

“Fuck,” cursed Bobby, staring at the lock of hair. “It really was him, then.”

Cas nodded. “Yes. Luckily, that is not the only thing I got from him.” He reached into his other pocket and pulled out a few wiry hairs. “I pulled these from his head while we were fighting. He did not notice.”

“Impossible,” said Sam at once. “He’s not stupid, he knew you might do that. If he let you, it means he _wanted_ you to.”

“Why would he want us to know who he is?” inquired Cas, tilting his head to the side as he regarded Sam in a way that made him deeply uneasy.

Shaking it off, he said, “Because he wants us to notice him, he always has. That’s why he’s left us that little fugly souvenir at every crime scene. He knows we’ve got our sights on him, and now that he’s choosing to step out of the shadows and into the spotlight, it can only mean that he’s got something planned for us. And I have a feeling we’re not going to like it.”

There was a silence as both Bobby and Cas thought this over. Finally Bobby said, “I knew it was a good idea givin’ you that file, boy.”

Sam offered him a strained smile, but said nothing.

“What do _you_ think?” Bobby asked Cas.

“I think Sam is on to something,” Cas replied quietly, sitting up straighter. “And if he’s right, then we must prepare ourselves for whatever is coming. We can only do that if we figure out what his plan is.”

“And the first step to that is to get that analyzed,” Sam said, nodding at the hairs on Bobby’s desk. “I’ll get those sent to the lab for DNA testing. Sooner we know who he is, the faster we can figure out his motive and find a way to stop him.”

“I agree with Sam completely,” declared Cas. Far from making Sam feel glad that he had support, it made him uncomfortable.

Bobby looked from Cas to Sam, and then back again. “All right,” he said finally. “Sam, I’m puttin’ you on this case as Cas’s partner from now on. Where he goes, you go. What he does, you do. And I don’t want to hear any bitchin’,” he added firmly when Sam opened his mouth to protest.

“But Bobby—”

“I don’t want to hear it, Sam.”

“Bobby, just listen to me—”

“Sam, I will put my boot so far up your ass it’ll tickle your tonsils,” threatened Bobby. “The two o’ you are partners from now on, and that’s the way it’s gonna be, because _I fuckin’ said so_. You can bitch all day long, son, but I ain’t hearin’ it.”

Sam sighed and crossed his arms. “Fine,” he muttered. “ _Fine_.”

Cas looked hesitant as he said, “Sir, if Sam does not wish to work with me—”

“This ain’t about his wishes,” growled Bobby. “Look, idjits – I’ve had a long day, and all I want right now is a bottle o’ Jack and the biggest cup I can find. What I _don’t_ want is complainin’ and mopin’ from professional detectives who should know better.” He looked pointedly at Sam, who uncrossed his arms but did not change his mulish expression. “Are we clear?”

“Yessir,” muttered Sam.

“We’re clear,” added Cas.

“ _Good_ ,” said Bobby emphatically. “All right, now that _that’s_ outta the way – I want you two on this case at all times, ya hear? You’re gonna eat, drink and breathe this case, it’s yer entire _life_ now, and will be until we catch that asshole. Get Bradbury on it too, and Garth as well. Yer gonna need all the help you can get.”

Sam nodded, and Cas said, “Yes, sir.”

“Okay, you two can go now,” Bobby dismissed. “Go home, rest up, and get yer shit together, both o’ you. I want you back here tomorrow mornin’, bright and early, ya hear?”

“Yessir.”

“Sir,” began Cas, his mouth set in an unhappy line, blue eyes appearing clouded over. “Sir, what about Gabriel?”

All the bluster seemed to leave Bobby once more, and he slumped in his chair, sighing. “I’ll send a unit to get him back,” he said. “Look, boy, he died a hero, ya hear? A _hero_. And we’re gonna bury him like one.”

Cas nodded, raw emotion on his face, and Sam looked away, suddenly wanting nothing more than to be far, far away from here. The naked grief on Cas’s face seemed to scream at him, to tell him that Cas was a changed man now, far different from the person who had hurt him so badly a few years ago. Still it seemed that Sam could not reconcile this version of Cas with _that_ one, or to be able to look him in the eye. Not wanting to think about it anymore, he stood and said, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Bobby. You, uh, you take care, okay?”

“Yeah,” was all Bobby said. “See ya in the mornin’.”

To Sam’s irritation, Cas followed him out the office and into the hallway outside, a step behind him. Sam had been hoping to escape and get home without having to utter one more word to his new partner, but it seemed that the universe had other plans for him. And he did not like these other plans at all.

“You don’t want to work with me,” Cas said. It was a statement, not a question.

Sam snorted. “What could possibly make you think that?” he muttered sarcastically.

“Look, Sam, I already apologized, countless times, for what happened,” began Cas, walking in step with Sam. “It’s not fair of you to continue treating me like this.”

“I don’t treat you like anything,” Sam said. “I don’t even interact with you any more than I need to.”

“Exactly,” Cas said. “I don’t like it, Sam. I thought you said you’d forgiven me.”

“I did, but that doesn’t mean I forgot it, you know,” Sam told him. “Look, Cas – you can’t blame me for it, all right? You _know_ what you did, and you knew what effect it would have on me. You did it anyway. It’s not the kind of thing I can easily forget, okay? I mean, you almost _ruined my entire life_.”

“And I have never gone a day without regretting it deeply!” retorted Cas. “I am not asking for things to go back to the way they were, Sam. All I want is for you to at least treat me civilly.”

“I have been nothing _but_ civil with you, Cas, but that’s all I’m going to be,” Sam told him, stopping in his tracks to look Cas in the eye, his gaze steely. “I’m sorry if you’re expecting that we can have a relationship of any kind beyond a professional one, but it’s just not possible anymore. And that is entirely on _you_. For as long as we’re working together, I will continue regarding you as my professional equal, and a well-respected colleague. But I can’t be _friends_ with you, I’m sorry. I just can’t.”

Cas looked away with a sigh. “All right, Sam. As you wish. I truly hope that you’ll change your mind someday. I _am_ sorry, you know.”

“I know,” said Sam shortly. The _It’s not enough_ went unsaid but clearly received by Cas, if his dismayed expression was anything to go by. Sam ignored the twinge in his gut, and instead turned, beginning to walk away.

“Give Dean my best,” Cas said from behind him, thankfully not following this time.

“Sure,” Sam replied brusquely, and strode away from his colleague.

* * *

Sam was lying curled on their couch when Dean came home from work, the TV running on mute in the background. “Hey,” said Dean, looking surprised at the sight of his brother.

“I forgot to get the beer,” said Sam listlessly in greeting, not looking away from the TV screen even though he wasn’t actually seeing anything.

There was a _clink_ as Dean put up his keys on the peg by the door and deposited the bags of Chinese takeout on the coffee table, before kneeling on the floor next to Sam. “You all right, Sammy?” he asked, feeling Sam’s forehead for a fever.

Sam nodded, leaning into the touch. “Yeah.”

Dean snorted. “No you’re not.”

“No, I’m not,” agreed Sam, turning off the TV and tossing the remote aside. “Gabriel died today.”

Dean stopped short in whatever he was going to say, clearly taken aback. “What?”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “On the job. Our serial killer did it. Attacked him and Cas while they were investigating a fake 911 call. Cas just barely got out.”

“Shit,” said Dean.

“Yeah,” repeated Sam dully. “Bobby’s stressed as hell. Made me Cas’s new partner because I figured out that it was a trap. Only I was too late.”

“He made you and Cas partner up?” said Dean, frowning. “Doesn’t he know you’re not exactly pals—?”

“He knows,” sighed Sam. “But he doesn’t care, says the case is bigger than whatever issues we have with each other. He’s right, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“You okay with it, then?” asked Dean, smoothing wayward strands of hair away from Sam’s forehead. Sam found himself relaxing, just like he always did when Dean was around. There was just something about his big brother’s presence that made things seem not as bad as they did when he was alone, and for that Sam was grateful.

“No, not really,” he told Dean. “But I’ll deal with it, I guess. I don’t have a choice, do I?”

“No, you don’t,” Dean agreed.

“He told me he was sorry, after the meeting,” Sam said. “And he said that he regretted it, and he wanted me to stop treating him the way I do.”

Dean frowned. “You barely even talk to him.”

“Yeah, I know. I said I’d be civil for as long as we were working together, but if he’s expecting us to be friends again, he can forget it.”

Dean hummed thoughtfully. “What did he say to that?”

“Said he hoped I’d change my mind.” Sam sat up, Dean’s hand falling away from his forehead as he did so. Dean took the opportunity to get up from the floor and sit on the couch next to Sam, their shoulders and knees touching.

They sat in silence for a few minutes. While this would have been awkward and strange with anyone else, with Dean it was calming, peaceful, and gave Sam a chance to get his thoughts in order and center himself. He leaned slightly into Dean’s side, his long hair falling on Dean’s shoulder and probably scratching at his neck. Dean, for once, didn’t complain though, and Sam felt a sudden burst of affection for his brother.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

“For what?” asked Dean, looking surprised.

“Just… being here, I guess,” Sam replied, waving his hand around in an aborted half-circle.

Dean snorted. “Like I’d ever _not_ be there when you need me,” he said, and his voice was full of fond exasperation.

Sam smiled a little. “Yeah, same.”

“I know.” Dean rolled his eyes. “Are we done with the chick-flick moment? I’m hungry.”

* * *

 

Dean came into Sam’s room just as Sam was preparing for bed, later that night. “Hey,” he said. “You sure you’re all right?”

Sam nodded, stripping down to his boxers and pulling on an old, worn cotton shirt. “Yeah, Dean. Don’t worry.”

“Can’t not,” Dean pointed out, sitting at the foot of Sam’s bed. “Listen, it’s not just being partners with Cas that’s bothering you, I can tell. You’re thinking about Gabriel.”

“Yeah,” admitted Sam, getting into bed and sitting cross-legged with his back against the headboard. “I was thinking that maybe I should have forgiven him before he died. And then I thought that he was a complete dick who didn’t deserve it, and being dead didn’t change that. And then I felt like a shitty human being, because he’s _dead_ , and I can’t seem to remember him as anything other than a dick.”

“That’s because he _was_ a dick, Sam,” Dean told him. “No way around it, man. What he did to you was absolutely fucking shitty, and no one blames you for not having forgiven him, okay? You’re right; he didn’t deserve it, anyway. He never did apologize, did he?”

Sam shook his head. “No, he didn’t. Just kept saying that it was a joke and I needed to grow up and take it as such.”

Dean’s face darkened. “It was _not_ just a joke,” he said hotly. “He had to know that, Sam.”

“Does it even matter anymore?” asked Sam wearily. “He’s dead now.”

“Dicks are dicks even when they’re dead,” Dean pointed out. “He was good at his job and he died doing it, and I’m not gonna deny that it’s not a half-bad way to go. I’m just saying, it still doesn’t excuse the crap he pulled on you, okay?”

“Half the people in the office agreed that I overreacted,” Sam said wryly.

“Fuck them,” was Dean’s simple reply. “What were you supposed to do, laugh and clap him on the back, tell him what a fuckin’ riot he is?”

Sam snorted. “Hell no.”

“Look, all I’m saying is, you’re allowed to be upset that he’s dead, Sam. Dick or not, no one deserves that. But you are _also_ allowed to be angry at what he did, because it truly was shitty of him to do so. You don’t have to forgive and forget just because he kicked the bucket, okay? It doesn’t erase his actions.”

Sam regarded this for a moment, fingers knotted in his lap, head bent, and hair falling over his face. It was well past the regulation length for a cop, but as long as he kept it tied back in a ponytail Bobby had no problem with it. Dean sometimes joked that he would take a pair of shears to it someday while Sam slept, but they both knew that that was all it was – a joke. A harmless one, as opposed to Gabriel’s idea of a joke.

And Dean was right. Even if Gabriel hadn’t died, Sam had had no plans of forgiving him – or ever talking to him – any time soon. What he’d done didn’t warrant forgiveness; in fact, Gabriel was lucky that Sam hadn’t broken every bone in his body and then proceeded to strangle him with his own bare hands. As it was, Sam was less inclined towards violence than most of his colleagues, but everyone had a breaking point and Gabriel had managed to successfully push Sam to his. The man honestly had been lucky that he’d gotten to live a few extra months between then and now, because Sam would definitely have killed him if he hadn’t been so busy panicking.

Still, Sam was right too, that it just didn’t matter anymore. Gabriel was dead. And yes, Sam was upset about it, which really wasn’t all that strange considering they’d been colleagues, and that Gabriel hadn’t been evil or anything, just had an extremely warped sense of humor and a lack of consideration for the consequences. He’d had good traits too, though. Just because Sam was struggling to think of any of them right now didn’t mean they didn’t exist.

Finally he just sighed and looked back up at Dean with a small smile. “When did you get so wise?”

Dean rolled his eyes, but he smiled back as well. “Since you were born and I realized that I would have to deal with your emo self for the rest of my life,” he replied good-naturedly. “Now, isn’t it past your bedtime, Sammy?”

It was Sam’s turn to roll his eyes. “Whatever, jerk,” he muttered, straightening out his legs and getting under the covers. “You planning on going to bed anytime soon, or are you just gonna sit here and watch me sleep like a creep?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” retorted Dean. “If I was into watching people sleep – which I’m _not_ , bitch – you definitely wouldn’t be my first choice. Or my last. Or any choice, really.”

“You warm my heart, you really do,” Sam snarked, reaching out to turn off his lamp. “Now go away, I’m tired.”

Dean got up to leave, but not before swatting Sam’s leg through the covers. “Aw, I get all fuzzy inside when you say such sweet things,” he snarked. Still, when he reached the door, he added a soft, “Good night, Sammy,” and a smile that Sam could only see the shadow of in the dark, but which he appreciated anyway.

“’Night, Dean.”


	3. Chapter Two

**chapter two**

Just like they’d said, Charlie and Sam were both back at work the next day, though it was obvious that neither wanted to be there. The atmosphere in the office was somber, and the lack of the usual inane morning chatter and watercooler conversations just served to emphasize the unnatural silence. No one said much, just sat at their desks and worked in silence.

Gabriel’s empty desk in a corner was a reminder of his death. No one had cleared it out yet. Sam didn’t know if Bobby had even told his family, and he didn’t want to ask. In fact, he didn’t want to think about the entire situation _at all_ , but his brain refused to cooperate with him on that front.

Charlie came by his desk around ten and set down a cup of coffee on his desk. “Hey,” she said quietly.

“Hey,” Sam replied, just as quiet. “How’re you doing?”

“Okay, I guess,” she said. “I mean, I cried all night, but whatever.” It showed; her eyes were almost as red as her fiery hair. “I just… I just want to get it over with. This case, this perp, everything.”

“Yeah, me too,” said Sam with an unhappy sigh. “I couldn’t sleep much, either.” He’d tossed and turned for a good few hours before finally giving up and just lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, debating whether or not he should wake Dean. In the end he’d decided against it – he wasn’t a child anymore and while Dean would not have minded, it just didn’t feel right to wake him up for something as silly as “I can’t sleep”.

Charlie nodded. “Yeah, you kinda look like crap. No offense.”

“Right back at ya,” Sam muttered, offering her a small, sympathetic smile. She returned it, but it left much too quick for Sam’s liking. He didn’t like seeing her like this, pale and fragile, her hair hanging limp about her face. She wasn’t even wearing any eye-wateringly bright colors today; it was black pants and a black full-sleeved shirt, like she was already at Gabriel’s funeral.

“Hey,” she said, getting his attention when he’d wandered too far off in his own thoughts to realize she’d been saying something. “You… didn’t get along with him, did you?”

Sam shook his head. “No,” he answered. She didn’t know (it had happened before she’d joined them) and to this day she’d never asked, even though it was painfully obvious that she was dying to know the reason for the animosity between them.

“I thought I’d ask him about it, but I never did,” she told him quietly. “I figured it was your story to tell. But I did hear stuff about it from the others.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “What kind of stuff?”

“Well, Raphael said that Gabe had just played a joke on you and you overreacted and were being a baby about it, but Garth and Kevin both said that what he’d done was way over the line and you were absolutely in the right by not talking to him, especially because he refused to admit he was wrong.” She looked at him, her expression dull instead of the usual lively curiosity. “But the thing is, it doesn’t really matter anymore, does it? He’s dead. There’s no point hating someone who’s not around for you to direct it at, you know?”

Sam sighed. “I didn’t _hate_ him,” he told her. “I just didn’t like him either. And I _know_ he’s dead and none of it matters anymore, but if you’re asking me to forget it all, then I’m sorry, Charlie, I can’t. You don’t know what he did, okay.”

She pulled up a chair and sat down, looking at him somewhat defiantly. “So tell me. No one else is going to tell me the whole thing accurately, and Gabe’s kinda… too dead for me to ask him.” She uttered a hollow, mirthless laugh. “So tell me, Sam. Like I said, it’s your story to tell.”

Sam watched her, considering his options. He could tell her to go ask someone else, but he had no idea what kind of embellished bullshit she would be fed (especially if she asked one of the people who thought he’d overreacted), and there was a great risk of him losing her if she ended up deciding that Gabe had been right. He didn’t want to lose one of his only friends, the girl who was like a sister to him.

His second option was to refuse and tell her that he didn’t want her to know, which would hurt her feelings and also make her wonder what he was hiding, which would lead to the inevitable conclusion that maybe Gabe had been right after all. So – nope, not doing that either.

He decided to go with the third option. “Okay,” he said. “Okay, fine, I’ll tell you.”

She nodded, all of her attention on him. He tried to shake off the unease at being someone’s sole focus for any amount of time (other than Dean, of course), and went on, “So you know I live with my brother, right? We were kids when our mom died in a fire. I was a baby and Dean was four. He was the one who pulled me out of that fire while our dad tried to save our mom. It didn’t work out. Soon after my dad found out that it hadn’t been an accident, it was arson, and he went – well, he got obsessed with finding out who did it. Literally devoted his entire life to it.

“So he wasn’t home a lot, you know? We used to move from town to town, barely stayed in one place long enough for me and Dean to be able to complete a school year. So it was just Dean and me, and we were each other’s only constants in a world that kept changing. I mean, he raised me more than my dad did. Bobby helped too, he knew my dad and he used to look after us whenever he could. Even after he had a falling out with our dad, he never stopped looking out for us, but he couldn’t always be there.

“Naturally, Dean ended up being my whole world. He kind of still is. And just about everyone we know, even casually, knows it. The fact that we still live together is a pretty much indication that we can’t really be separated for too long. It just got more intense after our dad died. He found the arsonist, by the way, he got his revenge. But he died soon after, in a car crash, and Dean nearly lost his mind with grief. I could handle it, more or less, but Dean’s the kind of person who keeps shit to himself until he implodes, and that was what happened. I don’t want to think about what he might have done if it hadn’t been for me.

“Gabe knew all of this. I mean, it’s a small town, word gets around. Everyone knows everyone else’s business. Gabe had a twisted sense of humor, see. He thought it would be funny if he—” Sam’s expression changed, his mouth pressed into a tight line, jaw clenched. At Charlie’s look of concern he forced himself to relax. “He thought it would be absolutely fucking _hilarious_ if he played a little prank on me.”

Charlie grimaced. “I have a feeling this isn’t going to end well.”

“You’d be right,” Sam said grimly. “He got Matt from the coroner’s office in on it too. They managed to find a body that fit Dean’s height and weight, and his general physical description.”

“Holy shit,” Charlie interrupted, closing her eyes and placing her hand over them. “Please tell me he didn’t.”

“He _did_ ,” Sam said, voice shaking a little with barely restrained anger. It had been a while but he still got furious thinking about it, still felt the urge to punch the shit out of Gabriel, even if he had to resurrect him to do so. “See, Dean had a habit of switching off his cell phone while he worked, and Gabe took advantage of that. He faked a 911 call about a guy in a car crash, then had the body covered in fake blood and put near a wrecked ’67 Impala. It was all very elaborate, really, you could tell he’d put a lot of effort into it.

“I was on patrol with my partner at the time, and I responded to the call. I had no fucking idea it was a setup. All I knew was that some guy matching my brother’s description had been killed in a car crash. And I absolutely _lost_ it. Dean’s phone was off, I had no way of reaching him, and then I arrived at the scene to find this body that looks a lot like him, dangling out of an Impala that looked a helluva lot like ours.”

Sam paused, and took a few deep breaths, willing himself to calm down, for his speeding heartbeat to return to normal. Charlie had a horrified expression on her face, or whatever he could see of it – she had both hands clapped to her mouth as she listened in what appeared to be a mixture of disbelief and horror.

“Anyway,” Sam said, voice shaking just a little bit from the weight of the memory, of what he’d gone through that day. “Gabe arrived just a few moments later, said he’d heard it over the radio and come to investigate, and he found me— well, he found me clutching the body, begging Dean to come back. I don’t think I’ve ever cried as much in my life as I did that day. Not when my girlfriend died, not when Dad died, not ever. And I think that was when he thought that maybe he’d taken it too far, and he just sort of… laughed it off and told me it wasn’t real.

“So, naturally, I punched him.” He took his bottom lip into his mouth and bit it absently, before scrubbing at the ghost of tears on his face with his hand. “And then I went right to Dean’s workplace and hugged the hell out of him. Gabe never apologized, and I never said a word to him after that, even though all I wanted to do whenever I saw him was strangle him with my own bare hands.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” whispered Charlie, finally removing her hands from over her face. “I can’t believe he… shit. I don’t blame you at all, Sam. Hell, I think if it had been me, I would have probably murdered him on the spot.”

“Believe me, it was a close call,” said Sam with a mirthless laugh. “The only reason I didn’t was because my first priority was finding Dean and seeing for myself that he was okay, and he was alive.

“But yeah, Gabe’s dead now. And I may not have forgiven him for it, and I probably can’t, ever, but it’s pointless to hang on to it now.”

“Did he ever say why he’d done it?” asked Charlie.

“Yeah,” answered Sam, expression darkening. “He said that it wasn’t healthy for me to be as attached to Dean as I am, and he wanted to show me how it was bad for me.”

“Jesus, are you kidding me?” exploded Charlie, and everyone turned to look at her and Sam. “Sorry,” she said apologetically, voice much lower, but when everyone had returned to their work, she began talking in angry whispers, waving her hands all about her as she spoke. “What the fuck? I’m pretty sure it would have messed _anyone_ up! Holy shit, was he _insane_?”

“It had been theorized, yes,” said Sam wryly, looking a little amused at her outburst despite himself. Then he turned serious again. “Look, I know he was your friend, and I’m sorry that I kind of ruined his, his memory or whatever, with my story. I don’t want you to remember him because of what he did to me. He was your _friend_ , and you should remember him that way.”

“Oh God,” muttered Charlie, shaking her head. “You’re too much, you know that?”

Sam blinked. “I’m what?”

She actually facepalmed. “So a guy is a complete dick to you and plays the _worst prank in the history of ever_ on you just to prove some bullshit point about something he has absolutely nothing to do with, and your response is to ask me to still think of him as a good person?! How are you so old, and yet so naïve?”

“First of all, I’m only a few years older than you,” Sam told her indignantly. “Secondly, I’m honestly so far from naïve now that it’s not even funny anymore. Look, whatever he did to me was between me and him. It shouldn’t tarnish your memories of him.”

“Too late for that,” muttered Charlie. “And you know what? Whatever. I don’t care if my memories of him are ruined or whatever it is you’re thinking. You were my friend first, all right? And what he did was _wrong_. Anyone with half a brain cell can see that, so if anyone thinks you overreacted, they can have the same thing happen to them and see how they like it. Fuck ‘em, Sam. And fuck Gabe for what he did.”

“This is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you,” groaned Sam, burying his face in his hands. “Now you’re all pissed at him.”

“’Course I am!” she retorted, but added in a much calmer voice, “but you know… he’s gone now. And it’s the past. No point dwelling on it and just making yourself angrier.”

“That’s rich, coming from someone who was ready to explode a moment ago,” pointed out Sam.

She swatted him on the arm. “My point still stands, Sam,” she said seriously.

He sighed. “I know. You’re right. But you asked, and I gave you what you wanted. That’s all there is to it. I’ve stopped thinking about this a long time ago, to be honest. It’s not the kind of shit you want at the forefront of your mind all the time, especially when you’ve got to see the jackass who started it every day.” He glanced over at Gabe’s empty desk sitting forlornly in the corner. “Guess that’s over too now, huh.”

“Yeah, it is,” said Charlie, before standing and clapping Sam on the shoulder. Even sitting she came up to his chest, which Sam found hilarious and Charlie found exceedingly annoying. “So let it go, okay? And don’t worry about ruining my idea of him,” she added. “That’s _my_ problem, not yours. The same thing would have happened if I’d heard the story from someone else.”

He nodded, and offered her a small but sincere smile. “Thanks, Charlie.”

She returned the smile. “Sure, Sam. I better get back to work before Chief comes over here to kick my tush, though. I’ll see you around.”

“Later,” replied Sam, and watched her leave, returning to his work only when she was seated at her desk and reburied in paperwork.

He was glad he had her for a friend slash little sister. She was good people, absolutely solid, and he felt grateful that he knew her, got to call her one of his best friends. God knows he had very few of those these days, anyway.

With a small smile to himself he flipped open a folder and began reading whatever was in it.

* * *

 Cas came by Sam’s desk around noon. He just stood there, waiting for Sam to acknowledge him, while Sam pointedly carried on working like he hadn’t noticed Cas standing nearby and blocking the light. Cas cleared his throat once or twice, in a subtle bid to get Sam’s attention, but it didn’t work, until finally Cas swooped down and got all up close and personal, his face inches from Sam’s. “I do believe it’s rude to ignore someone standing right next to you, especially when they are trying to get your attention,” he said solemnly.

Sam flailed, his chair wheeling backwards and almost crashing into Kevin, who was passing by. “Jesus, Cas!”

“I have been attempting to get your attention for four minutes now,” Cas told him, straightening again. “You have been ignoring me.”

“I wasn’t _ignoring_ you,” Sam muttered, wheeling himself back to his desk. “I was working.”

“And yet acknowledging me wouldn’t have killed you,” Cas said.

Sam sighed in frustration, closing his eyes as if in prayer for patience. “What is it, Cas?” he asked finally, opening his eyes again. “What do you want?”

“Chief Singer wants us to go talk to one of his contacts,” Cas told Sam. “Perhaps he can help us with our case.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Who’s this contact?” he asked suspiciously. While he made no claims of knowing every person Bobby was acquainted with, he also was aware that Bobby had a very small circle of people outside the department that he trusted when it came to cases. And Sam _did_ know all of those people.

“I don’t know,” Cas answered. “Chief said to go wait at—” he looked down at a small paper in his hand, “Mabel’s Diner, where the man will come to us.”

“Jesus,” groaned Sam, and stood. “For the love of God—” Without completing whatever he was going to say, he strode off in the direction of Bobby’s office, not offering a single word of explanation to Cas, who followed behind looking both irritated and perplexed.

Bobby was seated at his desk, typing away at his keyboard while muttering under his breath about something, his coffee untouched on his desk, so cold that by now it had congealed. He looked up when Sam threw open the office door and all but burst in. “What?” he snapped irritably.

Sam didn’t bother wasting time and beating about the bush. “You want us to meet a man that we’ve never seen, whose name we don’t know? Bobby, we’ve had two officers walk into a trap just _yesterday_ , and one of them _died_!” He ignored Cas’s flinch at the reminder. “How do you know this isn’t a trap?”

“This guy’s one o’ my contacts,” Bobby replied snappishly.

“I happen to know every single person that you trust with cases, and you’d say if it was one of them!” Sam countered, waving his hands about as he tried to make his point. “The fact that we’re supposed to meet him without knowing who he even _is_ —”

“You’ll be in public, you’ll be fine,” dismissed Bobby impatiently. “Sam, look, I know this guy, okay? I’m not sayin’ he’s particularly trustworthy or even a good person, but he’s got information, and he’s willin’ to share it, for a price. Now, no one in this damned place has got any bleedin’ clue what to do next, so excuse me if I’m willin’ to take a risk and get information from any place that I can!”

Sam stared at Bobby, mouth hanging open in disbelief. “Not particularly trustworthy… Jesus, Bobby, _did you set us up to meet the mob_?”

“Don’t be silly,” said Bobby with a dismissive flap of his hand. “Now get to it, son, he’s only gonna be there today and if yer late he’ll call it off. He’s a prissy sumbitch about these things.”

Sam sighed in resignation, running his hand wearily down his face. “All right, Bobby,” he conceded, “but if I die, you’re explaining to Dean what happened and why exactly you’ve got my pissed off ghost haunting you.”

Bobby rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say, sunshine.”

“If Chief Singer does not wish to break the news of your death to Dean, then I will do it,” Cas said seriously, a few minutes later as they got into a cruiser.

“Is that meant to reassure me?” asked Sam, getting into the driver’s side. “Because if it is, it’s not working.”

“I would be a better candidate for the job, anyway,” Cas went on, as if Sam hadn’t spoken. “Chief Singer isn’t the most sensitive person.”

Sam snorted. “And you’re, what, Mother Teresa about these things?”

“Dean and I are on good terms with each other,” Cas stated. “Perhaps he will take the news better from me.”

“But Bobby’s like a father to us, so maybe he’ll take it better from him,” Sam countered. “Besides, stop saying there will be any such news. There _won’t_ be, or the first thing Dean will do is hunt down and kill everyone in the department, and that would be a _colossal_ mess.”

“Dean is rather touchy in matters pertaining to you, yes,” agreed Cas. “He would not take it well if you died.”

“If you imply that we’re going to die one more time, I will kick you out of this car,” threatened Sam. He knew that Cas didn’t really mean anything by it, that it was just vague imitation of banter – or whatever passed for it, between two men who hadn’t properly spoken to each other in months – but he couldn’t help feeling a small touch of annoyance anyway.

“I never said _we_ ,” Cas pointed out very seriously. “I have no intention of dying.”

“Neither do I,” said Sam. “So quit that.”

“All right, Sam.” Cas gave in, and as he turned to look out the window, Sam caught the shadow of a smile on his face.

“How can you be joking about this kind of thing now, anyway?” he demanded. “Especially after what happened yesterday.”

Cas looked back at Sam, his face back to its default serious expression. He looked deep in thought for a few moments, as if pondering how best to reply, and then he said, “Humor, I believe, is a method of coping.”

Sam didn’t know what to say to that, so he remained quiet. He used the remaining time of the drive to wonder why he didn’t feel so strange about their version of banter that had just occurred, when even talking to Cas usually made him uncomfortable. He was used to this now, this distance between them, and the conversation they’d just had was the most they’d spoken in months. While it didn’t give Sam any real inclination to patch things up with Cas again – he wasn’t even sure that was possible, now – it did make him feel like it was somehow an indicator of some kind, a herald of some unforeseeable change to come.

He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

* * *

 As it turned out, Bobby’s contact did not turn up at all.

Cas and Sam arrived at Mabel’s and sat down in a corner booth. Sam ordered coffee and Cas ordered tea, and while they waited for their drinks to come they tapped away at their cell phones, occasionally stopping to exchange a word or two about absolutely trivial things like the car-shaped salt shaker (whose holes were jammed) and the color of the vinyl seats (an interesting vomit-yellow).

Fifteen minutes after they’d arrived they began to grow impatient. There was still no sign of anyone other than them and a few other people in the diner – no one had come in, and no one had approached them. Sam considered calling Bobby to apprise him of the situation, but then decided against it – maybe the man was simply caught up somewhere and would be there soon. So he whiled the time by reading a book on his phone, and Cas played Flappy Bird.

Half an hour passed and they both were irritated beyond belief and beginning to get snappy with each other. Finally, Sam decided to give up – Bobby had said that the man was prissy about timings, so if he hadn’t turned up yet he probably wasn’t going to at all, and they’d just been shown up. With an annoyed sigh he said to Cas, “You know what, let’s just go back to the office. I don’t think this guy’s coming.”

“I agree,” said Cas. “Perhaps Chief Singer was mistaken.”

“Perhaps,” echoed Sam, and then signaled to a passing waiter for the bill. The waiter, a tall, slender man of perhaps thirty-five, forty at the most, brought them the leather booklet, and then retreated a few steps.

Sam opened the cover to find, not their bill, but a short note typed on a sheet of plain white paper. It read—

_Hope you enjoyed your drinks, gentlemen. This was purely a test, to see if you’d turn up. If you are still agreeable to meeting with yours truly, be back here later tonight, around eleven._

It was signed not with a name, but with a single letter, _C_. Sam turned over the note in his hands, but there was nothing on the other side except for a short—

_Oh, and do tip the waiter. He’s a hard-working man._

“Sure,” muttered Sam sarcastically to himself, putting a five-dollar note in the booklet. He signaled to the waiter while Cas read the note, and asked, “How long have you been sitting with that thing?”

“Half an hour,” answered the man.

“How did you know who to give it to?” questioned Sam.

“I was told to wait for the cop types,” he said. “That’s you, sir,” he added somewhat unnecessarily.

“Who gave you the note and told you that?”

“Can’t tell you that, sir. Perhaps you’ll find out for yourself tonight.”

Cas finished reading the note and replaced it in the booklet, before closing it and handing it to the waiter. “Here you go. Tell him we’ll be there.”

The waiter nodded. “Thank you, sir. And I do hope you tipped.”

Before either of them could reply, he had walked away and vanished into the back. Sam and Cas looked at each other, both with their eyebrows raised. “Okay, now I’m _sure_ this is a mob thing,” sighed Sam. “Dammit, Bobby.”

“We don’t have much of a choice but to be there,” Cas pointed out. “Chief thinks that this man can help us, and we don’t really have any other options.”

“Yeah, I know,” Sam said, checking his watch. “I’ll meet you here tonight at fifteen to, all right?”

“All right,” agreed Cas. “And Sam? Bring your gun.”

“Definitely.” Like he was going to walk into a meeting with an unknown man, possibly with connections to the mob, unarmed.

* * *

 “Don’t do it,” said Dean the moment Sam was finished explaining the situation to him. “I don’t care who this guy is and how he knows Bobby, there is no way in hell I’m letting you meet him—”

“ _Letting_ me?” Sam raised an amused eyebrow. “Since when do you _let_ me do anything?”

Dean sighed. “Whatever, Sam. Look, this entire thing _reeks_ of a bad idea, all right?”

“I know,” Sam said, placating, “but Dean, we both knew that this job would be dangerous, when I signed up for it. This is just a part of it.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to like it,” retorted Dean.

“Yeah, I know,” Sam said. “And I don’t like it either, to be honest. It’s just… it’s the case, y’know? Whoever our perp is, he’s killed twelve women and children already. And Gabe. And we’re at a dead end, and this is honestly the only way that I can see.”

Proof that Sam knew Dean inside out was in the words that he’d just said – Dean’s face softened immediately. If Dean had any soft spots, they were Sam, his business, his Impala, Sam, innocent people, kids, Sam, pie, and of course, Sam. That was about it. And he’d just appealed to that side of him, the one that couldn’t, didn’t want to sit by and let innocent people die just because he was worried about Sam walking into a trap.

“All right,” sighed Dean, and Sam resisted the urge to whoop at this small victory. Now wasn’t the time for it anyway. “Just be careful, okay, Sam?”

Sam gave him a small smile. “When am I not?”

Dean snorted. “Oh _please_. Do I have to remind you of all the shit you’ve pulled over the years that’s landed you in the hospital? If there was a hospital version of frequent flyer miles, we’d have ‘em all, Sammy.” He turned on the TV and put his legs up on the coffee table, but at the same time he leaned infinitesimally closer into Sam.

Sam curled back into the touch, smiling despite everything that was going on. If Dean could make light of a crappy situation then so could Sam. Maybe Cas was right and it was the only way of coping.

He rolled his eyes at himself. Now he was admitting that Cas had been right about something. Not that he wasn’t usually – Cas was one of the best they had. But when it came to personal decisions and his life, Cas was a notoriously terrible decision-maker. The man operated on pure logic alone, and sometimes it showed – Sam’s lip tightened involuntarily and almost imperceptibly – like that one time when he’d decided Sam was in the way and he had to get him out of it. In the worst way possible, when it came to Sam.

Sam wasn’t sure he could ever forget that, even if he’d managed to forgive Cas for it. And he wasn’t sure Dean would ever speak to Cas again – Sam might’ve been the forgiving type but Dean sure as hell wasn’t, especially when it came to Sam. If anyone laid a single finger on Sam with the intention of harming him – hell, if someone even _thought_ about it – Dean would know in a heartbeat and then there would be hell to pay. His sixth sense regarding his brother had never failed them yet.

Still, for better or for worse, Sam and Cas were partners now, and if they had any hope of finding their perp and kicking his ass, then they both just had to suck it up and stick together, and do their job. Sam wasn’t sure how things between them would be after the job was over, and right now he wasn’t in any mood to dwell on it either.

Enough on his plate, and all that.

So he just listed sideways into his brother’s side and watched mind-numbingly dull reality TV with him for as long as it took to momentarily forget all his problems and just enjoy his brother’s company.


	4. Chapter Three

**chapter three**

Sam left home at half past ten, Dean’s dire warnings and worried orders to take care and not do anything stupid still ringing in his ears. To shut his brother up Sam had just tapped him on the nose and grinned, “Boop!”

Dean had glared at him, but there had been a half-hearted smile hiding somewhere in there too. “Don’t get cute with me, Sam,” he’d warned, but he’d let Sam go without any further fuss.

It had been a game they used to play when they were kids; if either one of them seemed too tense or stressed about anything, too tightly wound, the other would tap his nose and declare “boop,” which was a signal to just shut up and let things happen as they would. They’d both learned earlier on that there wasn’t jack shit they could do to change their fates, but by God they’d never stopped trying. Some would say they never learned, but Sam preferred to think of them as warriors, people who would never stop fighting for themselves and for each other.

And he was okay with it. It wasn’t everyone who was lucky enough to have a person like Dean in their lives, to look out for them and watch their backs. No matter how shitty his life had been in the past, Sam never, not even for a moment, stopped feeling grateful for Dean. He’d take anything the universe threw at him, as long as he had Dean.

Once upon a time his tiny team of would-be warriors had included Cas too, but that had been years ago. Sam didn’t know if it was ever possible for it to happen again. Cas himself had seen to it too, when he’d decided to spike Sam’s drink with powerful hallucinogens and leave him to stew in his own sweat and tears, alone for hours and hours with no one to hear him beg—

He cut off that line of thought with a firm shake of his head. No use in dwelling on the past. It was time to focus on the present, and the present _only_.

He parked a few blocks away from Mabel’s and jogged the rest of the way, meeting Cas outside at five minutes to eleven. The other man looked just as tense and apprehensive as Sam felt, but they both nodded to each other and then stepped into the diner as one, presenting a united front. At least professionally. It wouldn’t do to have Bobby’s mob guy underestimate them and try anything funny.

“How are we going to know which one is him?” Cas muttered to Sam, but his question was answered right the next moment when the waiter from earlier walked up to them with a bright smile, tapped Sam’s elbow and said,

“Right this way, gentlemen.”

Sam looked at Cas, who raised an eyebrow. Sam nodded in return, and Cas’s mouth tightened into a thin line before nodding back. They both then turned to follow the waiter, neither of them letting any sign of nerves show.

The waiter led them to the back of the diner, which Sam noted was absolutely empty. Whoever this guy was, he clearly had enough influence in the area to make that happen, to ensure that they would not be disturbed. The waiter was the only person there other than them – that Sam could see anyway. He could hear a cook in the kitchen, but that seemed to be all.

They seated themselves in a small booth, where a short, stocky man in a long, expensive-looking charcoal-black coat was sitting with his back to them, reading the menu. Sam slid into the seat across from him while Cas decided to sit next to the man, effectively cornering him between them and the wall. The man kept on reading his menu, clearly unfazed by their presence.

Sam cleared his throat. The man ignored him and continued reading, as if it was very intriguing mystery he was perusing and not an old laminated card. Cas raised both his eyebrows at Sam, who huffed in annoyance.

They still went ignored.

“Hey,” Sam said, a bit loudly, his voice ringing in the empty diner. “You the guy who Bobby talked to?”

No reply, nothing. This was starting to get annoying.

“Hey,” Sam tried again.

This time the man looked up, but not at Sam. Instead he signaled to the waiter. “I would like the Friday special, please, Lyle.” His voice was shaped in refined syllables, the accent definitely foreign. British, thought Sam, most likely.

The waiter – Lyle – nodded. “Coming right up, sir.”

Cas frowned. “It’s Tuesday.”

The man finally turned to look at him, an amused smile playing about his mouth. “If I want the Friday special, I’ll order the Friday special.” He put the menu down on the table and slid it across to Sam. “Anything you wish to order, Detective Winchester?”

Sam shook his head, not touching the menu. “Clearly you know our names,” he said. “That puts us a bit of a disadvantage.”

“Ah, my bad,” said the man, though he did not seem apologetic at all. Each and every move of his, every word that came out of his mouth, seemed premeditated, as if he’d spent a long time planning this meeting down to every single word that was going to be spoken by any of them. Suddenly Sam felt incredibly vulnerable and trapped, as well as unprepared. It was not a good feeling at all, sitting heavy in his stomach like a meal gone bad.

“My name is Crowley,” said the man. “That’s all you need to know about me.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Are you mob?” he asked bluntly. Across from him, Cas looked like he was resisting the urge to facepalm at Sam’s straightforwardness. Well, whatever. Sometimes the direct approach worked best, and besides, Sam got the impression that this Crowley didn’t like to dilly dally about much.

The aforementioned man raised an eyebrow almost lazily. “And would I tell you if I were? And even if I did—” he leaned over the table, so close to Sam that he could smell his perfume, and finished in a silky smooth whisper, “what will you do about it?”

Almost against his will Sam leaned back against the vinyl of the booth, trying to suppress a sneeze. That was some heavy stuff the man had on. “Maybe go easy on the Dior next time,” he said, voice strained with effort.

Crowley looked amused. “C’mon, Sammy-boy. You wouldn’t know sophistication if it bit you in your uptight little behind.”

“Please don’t ogle Sam’s behind without his consent,” said Cas at once, voice grave and carrying a warning. Sam disguised his snort as a cough.

“I’ll ogle who I want, sunshine,” Crowley told Cas, smirking. “Now, if you two are quite sure you won’t be having anything, let’s get down to business, shall we?”

“Yeah, okay,” said Sam. “What do you know about—?”

“Whoa, whoa, hold it there, Moose,” Crowley interrupted, and Sam frowned at the nickname. “Not so fast. Let’s discuss payment first, shall we?”

“That’s not our business,” Cas said. “That’s between you and Chief Singer.”

“Ah, Bobby Singer.” There was a note of amused nostalgia in Crowley’s voice, much to Sam’s surprise. Clearly the two had history, but then why hadn’t Sam ever heard of him? Between them, he and Dean knew pretty much most of the people Bobby knew or had at some point mentioned. “Well, there’s an uptight arse if there ever was one,” Crowley went on. “He’s good at what he does, I’ll give him that. Though I honestly cannot comprehend what he was thinking, sending the equivalent of two brain-dead monkeys to conduct a negotiation.”

“This isn’t a negotiation,” Sam said heatedly, leaning forward to fix Crowley with his best intimidating look (according to Dean all it did was make Sam look like an especially grumpy puppy, but hey, what did Dean know about interrogating people?). “And we’re _not_ here to sit and chitchat with you like old pals, y’hear?”

“You’ll tell us what we want to know, and you’ll do it without any fuss,” added Cas, his voice gravelly with the unspoken threat.

Crowley just looked amused, his eyebrow rising. “Cute,” he commented with a snort. “Are we done with the theatrics, or would you boys like to compensate for your tiny cocks with some more threats?”

Without giving the consequences much thought – honestly, this man was irritating as all hell and Sam was quickly reaching the end of his already short tether – Sam cocked his gun and pressed the muzzle into one of Crowley’s knees. The man stiffened automatically, before forcing himself to relax and glaring at Sam. “What is this?” he hissed.

“Insurance,” said Sam with a smirk. “To make sure you’ll talk.”

“Bobby didn’t—”

“Oh, but Bobby’s not here,” said Sam cheerfully, and Cas quirked a small grin. “It’s just us brain-dead monkeys and _you_ , buddy, so you better start talking. Now.” To further emphasize his point he pressed the gun some more into Crowley’s right knee.

“Do you honestly think that threatening me will make me talk?” asked Crowley loudly, and Lyle looked over in their direction, alarmed. Sam saw him reach for something under the counter and opened his mouth to say something, but Cas got there before he did.

“Tell him to put down the gun, or you lose your other knee too,” he said icily, and Sam knew without having to look that Cas had his gun on Crowley’s left knee. For a moment his mind went back to when he and Cas had been partners before, long ago, and he had to mentally shake himself to pull himself back to the present. It seemed that they hadn’t lost their knack for teamwork, their ability to know what the other was going to do before he did it.

Crowley looked like he was going to protest or kick up a fuss, but when both of them simultaneously growled “ _Now_ ” he sighed exaggeratedly, rolled his eyes at the ceiling and then said, “I’ve got it handled, Lyle. Why don’t you go see if my Friday special is ready?”

The man was good, Sam had to give him that. Most men would have shat their pants if they’d had guns on their knees – even though Crowley was angry he was only treating it like some kind of minor annoyance, and for that Sam begrudgingly respected him a little.

“Okay,” he said when Lyle had vanished into the kitchen. “Talk.”

“What do you want to know?” asked Crowley.

“The murders,” Cas said at once. “Do you know who’s doing it?”

“Direct, aren’t you,” commented Crowley. When Cas shot him a withering glance he rolled his eyes and went on, “Touchy, touchy. Okay. I don’t know who’s doing it… for sure. I have a pretty good idea, though.”

“Who?” asked Sam.

“When you’ve got as many connections as I do, you hear things,” Crowley said, leaning back and looking for all the world like he was at a nude beach with a margarita and not in a seedy diner with guns pointed at him under the table. Sam had to admire that amount of composure. “I’ve heard things, all right,” Crowley continued. “Now, I’m not _absolutely_ sure, but I’m _reasonably_ sure, so don’t come after me if things don’t go your way, Moose.”

“It’s Sam.”

“Whatever you say, Moose.”

Cas made a sound of impatience in the back of his throat. “I want a name,” he said quietly. “Before I decide to press the trigger after all.”

Crowley turned to give Sam an incredulous look. “He really doesn’t get laid much, does he?” he commented. “Because let me tell you, he _needs_ it. Stick up his arse, this one. Maybe you should see about removing it. Who knows, maybe he’ll return the favor and put a _different_ kind of stick up your arse.”

“Shut up,” snapped Sam, feeling his face heat up, oh dear God, now was literally the _worst_ time to be blushing. He put up with Dean’s inappropriate comments all day, why was he blushing like a virgin now?

Cas didn’t seem to be faring much better – his ears were a hilarious shade of pink, even as his arm tensed when he pressed the gun into the kneecap. “Funny,” he deadpanned. “Now _talk_.”

“Before we decide that your balls would be a better target than your knees,” added Sam.

“You wouldn’t,” hissed Crowley, and to Sam’s delight he looked apprehensive.

“Just watch us,” Sam replied coolly.

“Low blow, going for a man’s bits,” muttered Crowley, before saying loudly, “ _Fine_. I’ve only got one name, all right? Alastair. I don’t know if it’s his first name or his last. I don’t know why he’s doing what he is. This is all I’ve got for you boys.”

The name tickled something in Sam’s memory, but he couldn’t get a hold of it at that moment, frustratingly enough. Deciding to save it for later, he asked, “How do we know he’s not working for you?”

“He has no connection to me or my network,” Crowley said. “I swear.”

“How do we know you’re telling the truth?” asked Cas immediately.

Crowley winced. “There’s no need to literally put it to my crotch, you know,” he told Cas. Then he winced again. “All right, _all right_! Jesus, that must be quite an impressive pole up your arse.”

“Answer the question,” barked Cas.

“How do you know I’m telling the truth? You’ve got your guns on my bloody balls, don’t you,” snapped Crowley irritably. “Would _anyone_ lie in this situation?”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “You’re not anyone, and I’m damn sure you’ve got experience lying under pressure.” The gun tapped Crowley’s kneecap twice, lightly.

He seemed to get the message. “This is between Bobby and me,” he told them. “An old debt. Let’s leave it at that.”

Lyle chose that moment to return with Crowley’s Friday special, setting it down on the table and asking, “Anything else, sir?”

“No, thank you Lyle,” Crowley replied, before turning to Sam and Cas. “I’d offer you two, but I don’t really want to,” he told them. “I don’t take kindly to being aimed guns at.”

“We don’t take kindly to bullshit,” was Sam’s square reply. “That all you’ve got for us?”

“Yes,” Crowley confirmed testily. “Can I eat now, or are you two chimps going to sit here and glare at me and try to come up with smart questions to ask?”

Sam was sorely tempted to kick him under the table, but refrained only because he knew someone had to be the bigger man here. Besides, Cas still had his gun trained on Crowley’s crotch, and Sam’s kick could set him off, and then there would be an epic mess to clean up.

And a crotchless Crowley, which for some reason Sam knew would bother Bobby.

He sighed to himself and slid out of the booth, nodding to Cas. “C’mon,” he said shortly. “We’re done here.”

“Nice meeting you too,” Crowley called out sarcastically behind them as they walked out of the empty diner. Neither replied.

They parted ways after that, and Sam arrived home just after midnight. The apartment was dark, and there was a note taped to the fridge that read:

_Leftover spaghetti in the microwave, orange juice in the fridge. Gone to bed._

Sam took the note down and tossed it in the trash, before removing the plate of spaghetti from the microwave and putting it in the fridge for later. He didn’t feel hungry even though the last time he’d had a proper meal had beenbreakfast that morning. He just felt tired, bone-tired and exhausted down to every cell in his body.

He shrugged off his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair, before slipping out of his shoes and putting them neatly in the shoe storage cabinet in the hall. Retrieving his jacket from the chair, he shuffled to his room and hung it up there, before slowly undressing down to his boxers and an old t-shirt that had once belonged to Dean. It was a bit too small for him but also too wide in the shoulders, but it was soft and warm and made for a comfortable night.

He’d just climbed into bed when his door opened and Dean popped his head in, hair messy from sleep and eyes at half-mast. “You didn’t eat.” It was a statement, not a question.

Sam offered him a tired smile. “Yeah, I’m not hungry,” he replied.

Dean came in, sitting down on Sam’s bed and observing him closely in the dim light from the lamp. “You look like crap.”

“Kinda feel like it too,” Sam answered with a short laugh. “Been a couple of long days.”

“Understatement,” snorted Dean. “How’d your meeting with Bobby’s contact go?”

“We didn’t get much,” Sam told him. “Just a name. Plus the guy was annoying as hell, just refused to shut up about how we’ve got sticks up our asses and also how Cas needs to get laid.”

“Well, he’s not wrong there,” commented Dean, dodging out of the way of Sam’s half-hearted swipe.

“I’m pretty sure he’s mob,” Sam said. “Figures, doesn’t it?”

“Dammit Bobby,” cursed Dean. “ _Really_? Now we’re associating with the fuckin’ mob?”

“Don’t really have any other choice,” Sam pointed out, and then yawned wide, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. “Holy _shit_ I’m tired.”

“I’ll be out of your hair in a sec, just one more question,” promised Dean, taking hold of Sam’s comforter and bringing it up to his chin like he used to when they were kids. He still did it sometimes, like Sam wasn’t a grown-ass man perfectly capable of doing it himself, and honestly Sam didn’t have it in him to complain, not when it always made him feel safe and loved.

“Shoot,” he said, nestling into the comforter.

“You and Cas,” Dean began carefully, with a tact Sam didn’t know he had in him. “How are you guys… getting along?”

“Fine, I guess,” he told his brother. “I mean, I’m telling myself that he’s just a colleague, y’know, but…” He sighed. “It’s hard.”

“Hard because of what he did, or…?” Dean trailed off, looking expectantly at Sam.

“Both,” Sam told him. “I can’t stop thinking about what he did, and also about… about how things could’ve been, if he hadn’t.”

“You said you’ve forgiven him.”

“Doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten,” Sam pointed out. “I want to, oh God I want to. I just don’t think I can.”

“You don’t _have_ to,” Dean said quietly. “Look, you can be friends again with the guy without forgetting what he did, okay? Hell, maybe you two can man up and talk about it, and finally get it behind you. Sam, you don’t _have_ to be a doormat to be able to maintain a relationship with someone.”

And Sam understood, he really did. Almost all his life he’d let people walk all over him because he thought that it was what they needed to do, and he was more than happy to let them, thinking it meant he could remain friends with those people. The line between friendship and manipulation had blurred so fast, consequently, that Sam hadn’t even noticed until one day he’d realized that all he’d ever done was give and give and expect nothing in return, and that was exactly how he’d ended up sobbing in a corner of his apartment with Dean trying frantically to calm him down, while Gabe replaced him as Cas’s partner on the force and off they went to catch the bad guy that had originally been Sam’s.

Dean had been furious. With Cas for doing it, with Gabe for replacing Sam, with Sam for letting it happen, and with himself for Sam’s suffering. He’d been the one to come home to the sight of Sam curled in a corner, screaming and begging to someone he couldn’t see for God only knew how long. He’d been the one who sat up all night long with Sam, held him and rubbed circles into his back, smoothed his hair back from his face and wiped his tears as he cried. And when the drugs had finally begun to wear off, he’d held Sam’s hair back as Sam threw up everything he’d eaten in the past 24 hours, and then he’d helped Sam get into clean clothes and then bed. He’d sat with Sam until Sam had fallen asleep, fingers loosely curled around his big brother’s, and when Sam awoke Dean had still been there, sitting next to him on the bed with his back against the headboard, fast asleep, one hand on Sam’s forehead.

Now Sam smiled up at Dean, a bright one despite his exhaustion. “Thank you,” he said softly. “And yeah. I know what you mean.”

“Good,” said Dean forcefully. “Now act on it, you hear?”

“Will do,” promised Sam with another short laugh. “You go get some sleep, okay? You don’t have to stay up just because I’m late.”

“I was asleep,” Dean told him, standing. “I woke up when you entered, though.”

“Okay, well, you can go back to bed now,” said Sam. “I’m all right, really. Just tired.”

“Yeah, all right,” said Dean, and leaned over to turn Sam’s lamp off. “I’ll see you in the morning. And Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“Think about what I said. About Cas.”

“Yeah.”

But he closed his eyes and drifted off the moment Dean closed the door behind him, and didn’t think of anything till the next morning.


	5. Chapter Four

**chapter four**

Dean’s words came back to him later, strangely enough, in a coffee shop as he stood in line and waited for his turn just before work. He turned them over in his head as he waited, absently staring at the little coffee shop’s wallpaper as he did so.

Dean had a point. But then he always did, whether he realized it or not. It had been more than a year to the last time Sam and Cas had been partners, and then the entire clusterfuck with the Fowler case. Sam had moved on, and so had Dean, even though he missed Cas, Sam knew he did. Cas had been a good friend to both of them.

The thing with the Winchester brothers was that they came in a package deal. To get along with one, you had to get along with the other or it would be a no-go. And the same applied for if you messed with one – the other would be upon you with righteous fury and vengeance that would make you quake in your piss-filled boots. Sam supposed that was what happened when two boys grew up with each other as the only constant in their lives.

So when Cas had hurt Sam, Dean had unequivocally cut off all contact with him. It was just as well that that was all he had done – Sam knew for a fact that Dean had a tendency to punch people who so much as laid an unwelcome hand on Sam, and fuck that Sam was perfectly capable of looking after himself. That had never mattered to Dean. His little brother would always be his little brother and it didn’t matter if they were kids or adults or even incontinent elderly men, Dean would never stop looking out from him.

Though if it was the third, then Sam couldn’t imagine what an incontinent elderly man would need protection from. Evil nurses probably.

He stifled a laugh at the thought and stepped up to the counter – it was his turn finally – and said, “One cappuccino please.”

The server, a young girl with short spiky hair, smiled at him and asked, “Sure, sir, comin’ right up. Anything else?”

He was just about to say “no thank you” when he stopped himself, and then, without pausing to think about it and therefore discouraging himself, he said, “Yeah, actually. A vanilla latte too, please?”

“Sure,” said the girl, turning to fill his order. “Just a moment, sir.”

He wondered why he said that, while the girl made his coffees. He wasn’t surprised that he still remembered Cas’s coffee order – he tended to remember things like that about people he knew and cared for. He _was_ , however, surprised, that he was standing there buying Cas coffee like they were still friends.

He remembered how he used to rib Cas over his taste in coffee, and how Cas would in turn give him a flat expression and deliver a disparaging comment on his own coffee in a voice so serious one would think world peace was being discussed. He remembered how sometimes Cas would go on the coffee run, and he always used to somehow get Sam’s order wrong because he could never remember whether Sam had soy milk or the usual kind. One time he’d turned up with an abomination so full of caramel and sugar that just one sip had made Sam’s stomach turn. He’d apologized to no end while Sam had laughed and waved it off.

He smiled to himself, a small private one. Good times.

Maybe he could have them again – if not as they were exactly, then at least some semblance that could possibly grow into something more.

And maybe he could start with baby steps. Such as—

“Your coffee, sir,” the girl said, jolting him out of his reverie, and he smiled at her, accepting the carrier and paying her, including a generous tip.

Her eyes widened. “Thank you, sir!”

“You’re welcome,” he told her. He felt… bright today. Not bright as in intelligent. Bright as in just good about everything.

And it may seem stupid, and he had no idea how Cas would even respond to his gesture, but it made him feel hopeful.

* * *

 Cas just stared at the cup when Sam set it down on his desk.

“It’s coffee,” Sam said redundantly, feeling somewhat uncomfortable, what with the way Cas was looking at it. “Swear it’s not poisoned.”

Cas regarded the second part of his sentence and said, “You remembered how I like my coffee.” He made it sound like it mattered a lot more than it really did. Maybe it did, to him, but right now it was just making Sam fidgety.

“Uh, yeah,” he said, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Unless you’ve changed your order.”

“I haven’t,” Cas confirmed. “Thank you, Sam,” he added sincerely.

“You’re welcome,” Sam replied, and retreated to his desk before any more uneasiness could follow.

He’d only just finished his own coffee when his phone buzzed. It was Jo from the lab. “Hey,” he said in greeting when he picked up. “Got something for me?”

“I’m fine, thanks,” came Jo’s teasing reply. “And you?”

He rolled his eyes even though she couldn’t see, but it was a fond gesture. “Yeah, I’m okay,” he told her.

“And yes, I’ve got the results for your sample,” she told him. “You owe me, by the way – I had to fight to get it done as soon as possible. We’ve got _massive_ backlog right now, there’s about a metric crapton of samples lying untested.”

Sam hadn’t heard a single word beyond the first sentence – not that he couldn’t quote it word by word if required, though. Jo complaining about how work was done at the lab was nothing new, and neither was him owing her favors. She usually called them in by making him or Dean do her errands, and while Dean bitched to no end about being made to carry out errands on Sam’s behalf, he didn’t actually mind it that much. Jo had always been a little sister to both of them.

“Tell me,” he said, cutting off her complaining midsentence. “What do you have?”

“His name is Alastair,” she told him, and immediately Sam tensed. So Crowley had been right. Well, at least some good had come of that meeting. “No surname,” Jo went on. “It’s the only name in the system.”

Sam grabbed a pen and a pad of paper and scrawled it down. “Okay, does he have a criminal record?” He could check for himself, but he knew Jo. Identification wasn’t enough for her – she always went the extra mile and pulled whatever information she could from the system. She’d wanted to be a detective, he remembered, when they’d been kids. She still did, and she probably would have been on the force if not for her mother Ellen, who didn’t want a repeat performance of her husband’s death while on a case.

“A couple of parking tickets, and – you’re gonna wanna hear this – a murder charge. Five years ago,” she told him, and he wrote it all down without giving a shit if it would be legible later. “His wife was found dead at their home, her head beaten in with a blunt object, according to the autopsy report. Oh, and she was pregnant.”

“Go on,” Sam said when she didn’t. “Why pin it on him? Was he abusive?”

“You know, you can look all this up yourself,” Jo told him wryly.

“I can, but why should I when you’ve no doubt gone and done it for me?” Sam replied with a grin that she seemed to catch even over the phone.

“Yeah yeah,” she muttered. “But just remember, you owe me.”

“Of course,” Sam said, humoring her. “And I’ve no doubt you’ll call in a favor at a time very inconvenient for both me _and_ Dean.”

“I live to inconvenience you two,” she said cheerily. “Consider it revenge for you being on the force without me.” Then, before Sam could say anything (it was still a sore subject with her, even years on), her tone changed back to serious. “Okay, says here that as far as they know he wasn’t abusive. No signs on the wife’s body, she’d never called for help, and all of her friends said she was happy with him. He’d been extra nice while she was pregnant, too, apparently.” She paused, and then continued in a sickened tone, “All two months of it.”

“So who killed her?” asked Sam, holding the phone between his ear and shoulder as he logged into the system himself. He had a higher clearance level than Jo did, maybe he’d find out more.

“No idea,” Jo replied. “There wasn’t enough evidence to convict him so they had to let him go, and he was their prime suspect. They did go on for a while before just giving up, I guess. The case went cold.”

“Right. Thanks, Jo.”

“Any time,” she replied. “Will you tell me if you find out more?”

Sam laughed. “You know I can’t do that.”

“Bummer,” she said, and hung up.

Sam typed in _Alastair_ into the search field, and then scrolled down the long list of names that appeared until he found the right one, the one with no surname. All of Alastair’s history was in the file, as well as a very unpleasant mugshot that had him scowling at the camera like he was planning the murder of whoever was behind it. Sam frowned at the photo, trying to read the digital lines of Alastair’s face, before giving up and scrolling down the file.

It basically confirmed all of Jo’s information, with nothing that was new. Like she’d said, it was a cold case, so it made sense that she was allowed to access it with her somewhat limited clearance. It wasn’t as if there was a lot of sensitive information in the file, anyway.

Sam reached the end of the file and then looked down at the notes he’d scrawled down while Jo had been talking.

_-        mrdr chg 5 yrs ago_

_-        wife found w/head bashed in; blunt obj trauma acc to autopsy_

_-        2 mnths preg_

_- ~~abusive husband ???~~_

_-        prime susp_

_-        lack of ev_

_- CASE COLD_

Well, it wasn’t _that_ illegible. He locked his computer, stood and walked over to Cas’s desk, notes clutched in his hand. Cas was doing something on his own computer, staring at the screen quite intently as he took small sips from the coffee he was still nursing.

His desk was the same size as Sam’s, and while both were organized, it was in different ways. Sam always took care to get rid of his paperwork as fast as he could, whereas Cas’s was stacked in a neat pile in one corner. Sam had a small notepad taped to the side of his monitor where he wrote notes and reminders; Cas had colorful Post-It notes stuck on every possible surface, the lines perfectly aligned and the edges all in place. Sam had his pens in a holder within easy reach and the rest of his stationery in the drawer; Cas had it all out on his desk, arranged in another corner. Sam had lots of space on his desk to work on; Cas had a scant few square inches.

It was in those few square inches that Sam set down his notes, leaning against Cas’s desk. “Jo called back with the results of the test on the sample,” he explained. “Crowley wasn’t lying. It’s Alastair.”

Cas blinked down at the sheet of paper, and then looked up at Sam. “I assume you looked him up.”

“Of course.”

“Did you find anything of note?”

Sam shook his head. “Just the stuff that I wrote down.”

Cas read the bulleted list, and then asked, “Why the single name?”

“He was in foster care from birth till he turned 18,” Sam replied, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Never got adopted or anything, so I guess he never really had a surname.”

“What name did his wife take on, then?” inquired Cas.

“Kept her old surname,” Sam replied. “I guess that was the name they would’ve passed on to the kid.”

“That’s speculation.”

“Yeah, I know. Just a thought.”

“Do you want to go check out his address?” asked Cas after a few moments of thought.

“Yeah, okay,” Sam agreed. “Let’s go tell Bobby first, though.”

* * *

 A few minutes ago Sam had been 100% focused on the case, but now all he could think of was the smug look on Bobby’s face when they’d told him his contact hadn’t been lying. He wondered again how Bobby knew the guy.

Before he could ruminate some more on it, Cas said, “You know, there’s a good chance we won’t find anything at his place.”

“Yeah, I know,” Sam replied, deciding to bring it up with Dean later. “But it doesn’t hurt to check, right?”

Cas shrugged, without taking his hands off the wheel. Normally Sam drove, but Cas had wanted to and Sam decided that a break from driving wouldn’t necessarily kill him. Alastair lived an hour’s drive away, and the time would be enough for Sam to sit and think about the case. Even now he had his laptop open in front of him and a copy of the casefile resting on the dashboard.

“I’ve heard it’s bad for your eyesight, reading in the car,” commented Cas.

Sam looked away from the laptop. “Yeah, I know,” he repeated, before turning back to it. He had Alastair’s file from the database open, and was rereading it in the hopes of catching something he hadn’t caught earlier.

“So maybe you should leave this for when we get back to the office.” Cas clearly wasn’t giving up.

“Yeah, but this way will save time,” Sam replied, trying not to sound irritated at being interrupted. “Besides, it’s an hour’s drive. What am I going to do in the meanwhile?”

“Talk to me?” suggested Cas, and he looked a little hesitant as he said it. Considering their history, that wasn’t what surprised Sam – rather it was the hopeful look on his partner’s face.

“What would we talk about?” he asked, wondering where Cas would go with this.

Cas shrugged again. “I was thinking we could… discuss some stuff.”

 _Oh shit_. He was going to bring up the time he’d fucked Sam over (to use Dean’s extremely crude yet accurate phrasing), and because there was no way Sam could escape from a moving car, he would be forced to sit through it.

Nevertheless, hoping hope against hope that he was wrong and Cas meant something else – though for the life of him he couldn’t fathom what it might be – he asked, “What kind of stuff?”

Now Cas looked uncomfortable. “Can we talk about this without you being distracted?” he asked, inclining his head towards the laptop.

“About _what_?” Sam asked, feeling just as uneasy himself, but he shut off his laptop anyway.

“Look, Sam…” Cas began, and then swallowed. He wasn’t looking at Sam, instead keeping his eyes straight on the road. “I want to talk about what happened. Between us. A year ago.”

Well, shit, there it was. Still, Sam couldn’t help take a page out of his brother’s book, and try to crack a joke that he _knew_ couldn’t hope to diffuse the now tense atmosphere. “You make it sound like a one night stand.”

It came out strained, not the way Sam had meant it at all, and as a result it fell through, and Cas did not even crack a smile. “Sam… you know what I’m talking about. I’ve tried to bring it up with you before, but you’ve always avoided me.” The _you can’t run now_ was unspoken, though Sam was sorely tempted to try. Would Dean be _too_ angry if Sam jumped out of a moving car just to avoid a conversation? It wasn’t as if they couldn’t afford the bills or anything – Sam’s job covered that and besides, thanks to Dean’s business of restoring old classics to working order, they were quite comfortable.

Oh, but he’d definitely be _furious_. Dean had had enough of seeing Sam in hospital beds, and Sam had no doubt that this time Dean would wait for him to get well just to murder him with his own hands. God knows he’d threatened it enough times in the past.

So jumping out of the car was not an option. Maybe Sam could fake a call. But then with his luck, the phone would ring while he had it to his ear, and then he’d be embarrassed and Cas would know he’d be bullshitting him. Wasn’t like Cas was an idiot, anyway – how likely was a phone call just moments after Cas had declared his intention to have A Serious Conversation About Past Clusterfucks?

So, also not an option.

Looked like Sam would have to sit through this after all.

Damn, but it was cunning of Cas, to take the wheel and then force Sam into this. Sam truly had no way of escaping and while he _really_ didn’t want to have this talk (something unusual for him, who, as Dean put it, was a regular Dr. Phil about these things), he couldn’t help but respect Cas a bit more. While the man wasn’t stupid by any stretch of the imagination, he wasn’t what could be called cunning, either.

Guess he’d just proved Sam wrong.

So in the end Sam just sighed, and said, “Okay, Cas.” Not very encouraging, as far as openings went, but Cas did not seem deterred.

Quite the opposite, in fact.

“Look, Sam, I know what I did wasn’t right,” he began, but Sam cut him off, unable to help himself.

“ _Not right_?” he repeated incredulously. “Cas, you spiked my coffee with God knows what kind of drugs just because you thought I was wrong! Which, for the record, I _wasn’t_! I had a fucking _mental breakdown_! Dean couldn’t go to work for two days because I panicked when he wasn’t there with me! I think ‘not right’ is a bit of an understatement, don’t you?”

“Okay, fine, so maybe I understated it,” conceded Cas, and Sam saw with a small measure of satisfaction that he _did_ look guilty at all the memories Sam had just brought up. “But Sam, I apologized. Countless times. What more do you want from me?”

“And I forgave you,” Sam said. He didn’t quite snap, but it was a close thing. “I don’t want _anything_ from you, Cas. Or from anyone, really. I’ve seen how well that goes for me.” The last part came out sounding bitterer than he’d intended.

“But I _do_ , all right?” Cas didn’t snap either, but just like Sam he sounded close enough to it to have an edge to his words. “It’s been a year, Sam, and I’m sick of you avoiding me, and refusing to talk about this, and refusing to look me in the eye. I don’t know what else I can do to convince you that I’m sorry. I learned my lesson, Sam, I learned it the minute I saw how wrong I’d been. And it was only emphasized that much more when your brother slammed the door in my face right after threatening to _shoot_ me.”

Sam blinked. “He did that?”

Cas nodded. “Yes, he did. And let me tell you, coming from a friend, that hurts.”

“Well, you did just fuck up said friend’s brother,” snorted Sam. “What were you expecting? A hug and words of comfort?”

Cas ignored the jab. “No, but I’d been hoping I could see you and apologize in person. This was the next day, by the way,” he added. “I was also going to ask you if you were going to be my partner again.”

Well, that explained it. Sam had spent the next morning in bed, retching and coughing as the drugs left his system, and occasionally crying. Fun. Not. He didn’t remember much of it clearly – it was all just a blur, and the only constant, other than the sickness, had been Dean’s soothing voice and hands.

Now that he thought of it, though, he _could_ recall Dean having left for a while that wasn’t a bathroom or food break. He’d heard raised voices, but he hadn’t been able to make out what was being said – or rather, shouted. And then there had been the slam of a door and Dean had come striding back into the room. Sam remembered how blurry his brother had looked to him then, through the film of tears that seemed to be ever-present in his eyes. Something must have shown on his face, because Dean had immediately sat down by his side and embraced him, had held him close and refused to let go until Sam had fallen into semblance of sleep.

“I remember,” Sam said quietly, so quietly that for a moment he doubted Cas had even heard it. “I remember it now.”

“I waited every morning by your desk, hoping I could talk to you,” Cas went on, a sad slant to his eyes and mouth as he spoke. “But you didn’t show up for a week. You weren’t answering your phone, and Dean would hang up every time he heard my voice on _his_ phone. I even called Chief Singer, but he didn’t seem to know anything about it, he just thought you’d caught the flu.”

“I didn’t tell him,” Sam said, his mouth feeling dry. “He – he doesn’t know what happened.”

“Why?” asked Cas, blinking in surprise.

“Because I knew he’d kick you out,” Sam replied quietly. “And regardless of what you did, I didn’t want that. You’re a good cop, and you were also the only one who knew the case as well as I did. That’s why I didn’t want Gabe in on it. It wasn’t out of any personal grudge or malice, or whatever. It was because he wouldn’t know how to handle it.”

“And he didn’t,” Cas said with a heavy sigh. “You were right, Sam. He messed it up. He didn’t mean to, but he did.”

“Yeah, I kinda saw that coming,” said Sam with a small, wry smile.

“And I should have listened to you,” admitted Cas. “Even when you were losing your mind on the drugs, you knew what you were talking about.”

“I generally do,” snorted Sam. “That’s why when Bobby called I said it was the flu. Dean was pissed as hell,” he added. “Thought I should have told Bobby the truth.”

“Yes, you should have,” concurred Cas.

“Why?” asked Sam. “Because you deserved it, or because you’d have felt less shitty about what you did if I’d paid you back for it?”

“I think both,” Cas said quietly. “I think the fact that you were so… so _you_ about it just made it worse for me. It made it impossible to forgive myself, because you’d done it so quickly and you refused to get back at me for me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, I wasn’t _that_ quick about forgiving you,” Sam countered. “Don’t get me wrong, Cas, but I was angry for a _long_ time. I just didn’t let it show because what would be the point? What was done was done and nothing either of us could do would change it.”

There was silence for a while as Cas appeared to take in Sam’s words, turn them over in his mind. In the meanwhile Sam turned to the window and began to absently watch the town pass by, houses with neatly trimmed lawns and a dog or a cat or sometimes both. Once upon a time he’d craved that kind of normalcy, probably thanks to the kind of childhood he’d spent with Dean. He’d wanted a cute wife and adorable kids and a Prius in his garage and his own little house, the whole deal. It had taken him a long time to accept that that wasn’t necessarily the endgame. Normal wasn’t a specific thing. Normal was the little things, like listening to Dean making breakfast in the morning, coming to work to the usual routine and banter with his colleagues, coming home to whatever Dean had ordered or cook, watching TV with him, talking to him every night before bed. He had his apple pie life. It just happened to be different from what he’d thought it would be when he’d been a kid, and there was absolutely nothing wrong with that.

His train of thought was interrupted by Cas saying, “I couldn’t talk to you even after you came back to work though. Especially because the first thing you had to do was fix Gabe’s mistakes – and mine. Mostly mine, because I _knew_ this would happen and I still went along with it. I couldn’t bring myself to look you in the eye, let alone talk to you. And then it looked like you just didn’t want to talk to me either, and I suppose that made it easier for me to not talk to you. I was a coward, I’m not afraid to admit it, Sam.”

There was another silence, this one shorter than the first. Then Sam said, “I did forgive you though. It took time, but I did. I just wasn’t… I couldn’t look at you without automatically thinking of what you did. That was all there was to it.”

“Then it must be a nightmare, working with me,” commented Cas. He didn’t say it in a hurt tone or even in a surprised one – he just said it like he was stating a fact.

Sam snorted again. “No, honestly you’re giving yourself too much credit here. It’s been a year, Cas. I’m more or less over it, thanks to Dean and thanks to my own efforts. That’s why I’m working with you now. Honestly you’re not as evil or scary as you’re making yourself out to be.”

Cas considered this. Then he said, “So you’re okay with us being partners?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah, pretty much.”

“And you’ve forgiven me.”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t think I’m a horrible person.”

“Horrible? No. A bit of an asshole when you get obsessed?” He uttered a short laugh. “Yeah. To your credit, you really seem to have fixed that, though. The obsessive side you have.”

“Okay,” Cas accepted with a small, self-deprecating grin. “So a bit of an asshole but otherwise okay.”

“Otherwise okay,” confirmed Sam with a small grin of his own.

“So why can’t we be friends again?”

The question caught Sam by surprise, even though logically he’d known it was coming. How could it not, after the conversation they’d just had? Even then, he was thrown for a loop. The most obvious thing to do would be to say “I need more time” – after all, hadn’t that been his constant refrain on the topic, about a week ago?

But then Cas had been assigned to be his partner on the force, and he’d talked to Dean about it, and now to Cas himself and… it just didn’t feel that way anymore. Almost without realizing it, Sam had found himself at ease in Cas’s company, no longer having to calculate every word or gesture. They’d talked, for the first time in a long time, and neither had held anything back. Both had been absolutely, brutally honest, and to Sam it felt like a load had lifted off his shoulders.

For the first time in a year, it had felt like he had his friend back, the guy with whom he could talk about anything and not worry that he would be judged. The guy he could _trust_ – though perhaps the practical implementation of that feeling was some way off for now.

Still. He’d gotten Cas coffee, and he’d meant something when he’d done that, regardless of whether it was his intention or not. He’d teamed up with Cas against Crowley, and for those few minutes it had felt like nothing had changed between them at all, like they still fit seamlessly together and could practically read each other’s minds. The only other person with whom Sam had felt a similar connection was Dean.

He inhaled deeply, and then let it out slowly. Then he looked at Cas, and said as sincerely as he could manage, “You know what? I don’t see why not.”

Cas turned to look at him, disbelief written clearly in the lines of his face. “What?”

“You heard me,” Sam said, trying not to grin at his partner’s – _friend’s_ – expression.

“You mean it?”

“Yeah.”

“We’re okay?”

“We’re okay.”

Cas looked deep in thought for a moment, and then his face broke out into the kind of honest, earnest smile that Sam hadn’t seen in forever. “I – thank you. Sam, _thank you_.”

“Don’t thank me, dude,” Sam muttered, now feeling a little uncomfortable because of the copious amounts of gratitude that Cas was practically exuding out of his pores. “It’s just been a long time without you, I guess. I may have been angry at you but that doesn’t mean I didn’t miss you.”

Cas’s smile grew, if possible, even wider. “I missed you too,” he admitted. “Gabriel was a good partner but he had nothing on you, Sam. And you – you’re a far better friend to me than he was.”

“You don’t need to flatter me, you know,” said Sam drily. “I’m not gonna stop talking to you if you’re not singing my praises every minute. I don’t even know where you find all the praises anyway, I’m honestly not that great.”

Cas opened his mouth, to protest probably, but before he could say anything Sam pointed out the window. “We’re here.”

Cas stopped the car – Sam couldn’t help but cringe, it looked like his partner’s braking still needed some work – and they both stepped out, both of them ensuring that their weapons were loaded as they removed them from their holsters and aimed in front of them. The time to talk was past – now they were both professionals, moving with stealth and deadly grace, ready to shoot at a moment’s notice.

It wasn’t a half bad house, mused Sam as they made their way up the driveway. It had a lawn – unkempt now, though it showed evidence of once having been cared for lovingly – and the ubiquitous white picket fence, and the house itself was painted a pleasant shade of coral. The roof had friggin _shingles_. It looked like something out of a storybook.

The lack of maintenance and care only became apparent when they got closer, though – the paint was peeling, the white picket fence was damaged, and the roof had not a few shingles missing. The door was ajar, and immediately Sam motioned to Cas to watch his back, before taking the lead and slowly inching it open with his foot.

It creaked a little, opening into darkness and dust, and Sam resisted the urge to sneeze. Keeping his gun aimed in front of him, he freed one hand to dig out a flashlight from his coat pocket, before holding it to his gun hand and forming a pale yellow swathe of light that aligned perfectly with the gun. Behind him Cas did the same, and they began looking around.

The furniture looked undisturbed, though not neat – it looked as if someone had gotten up in the middle of a game of baseball in the living-room and just left, and never returned. Sam caught the low sound of static and turned to see the TV still going in the living-room – how long had it been on? The static only made a creepy setting even creepier, and Sam, feeling uneasy down to every bone in his body, turned off the TV before continuing. Cas nodded gratefully at him, looking every bit as spooked as Sam felt.

The house felt _haunted_ , and even though Sam knew it was silly to think so, it did feel like there was something in here that wasn’t quite human. Then again, if there were any circumstances that could birth a ghost, it would be those of the woman’s death – violent and gory, a true tragedy.

They reached the foot of the staircase after having cleared the first floor, and the first thing Sam noted was a dark smear on the edge of the bottom step. Kneeling, he shone his light on it while Cas kept watch over him. It was a dark, dried brown – the color of old blood, and Sam felt bile rise in his throat even though it wasn’t by far the worst thing he’d ever seen. Getting to his feet, he lifted his arm so that the light washed over the rest of the staircase, and sure enough, there were smears of blood on most of the steps.

“Do you think—?” began Cas in a hushed voice, but Sam shook him off, already knowing what he wanted to ask.

“Can’t have been his wife,” he said, his throat feeling strangely constricted. “The case would have said if she’d fallen down the stairs. I think – I think he’s been bringing his victims here.”

“So there could be more bodies?” Cas wondered, looking sickened by the prospect.

“It’s a possibility,” Sam answered. “A very nasty one.” He took a deep breath and started going up the stairs, Cas a hair’s breadth behind him.

They went up the stairs in absolute silence, Cas’s warmth a comforting shadow on Sam’s back. There was no sound throughout the house except for the echo of their footsteps that was almost deafening no matter how hard they tried to silence it. Something stirred in the back of Sam’s mind but he couldn’t quite put a finger on it, so for the moment he pushed it aside and decided to focus on the job at hand.

But the second floor was empty too, unless one counted disturbed furniture. Cas shook his head at Sam, clearly disappointed but also relieved, and Sam exhaled in return, before inclining his head to the top of the stairs and gesturing downwards. Even though it looked like there was no one there but them, it still felt somehow _wrong_ to speak, to disturb the tomb-like silence of this great empty house.

It was only when they’d begun going down the stairs that Sam understood. Without any warning he bounded down the rest of the way, ignoring Cas’s strained whisper-shout of “Sam!” He came to a rest at the paneling under the staircase, and then knocked on it just as Cas came to a stop behind him.

The sound echoed.

“What are you _doing_?” asked Cas irately.

“It’s hollow,” Sam replied, voice hushed as he knocked on the wood again. “See?”

They shared a glance.

“Do you think—?” Cas began again. This time Sam’s answer was markedly different.

“Yes.” He handed his gun to a very nervous-looking Cas and began feeling along the edges of the paneling, looking for something, _anything_ that would slide it open, let him see what was hiding behind there. He had no doubt that it wasn’t Alastair; the man wasn’t an idiot, he wasn’t going to hide in his house when the cops could be by any minute. Besides, it wasn’t like the space under the stairs was going to give anyone a lot of breathing room anyway.

Anyone alive, that is.

Cas, seemingly frustrated with Sam’s efforts, handed his gun back to him, nudged him aside with a hand on his elbow, and then took the easy way out – he shot at the corners of the paneling. Sam couldn’t help but jump at the sudden _crack_ of gunshots in the heavy silence. “Cas!” he hissed. “What the hell? What if the neighbors heard?”

“What will they do, call the cops?” was Cas’s snarky answer. Sam rolled his eyes, regretting the day he and Dean had explained the concept of sarcasm to Cas.

Things had a way of coming back to bite him in the ass. He would have thought more about it, but the sight before him as Cas pried away the panel wiped all signs of everything else from his mind.

Bodies. Dozens of them, all piled together in one sickening heap of blood and bone and body fluids, all naked, all pregnant. Matted hair, eyes open wide in shock, clotted blood on their bodies and exposed bone through broken joints…

Sam had seen worse, but that didn’t stop him from moving to the side and retching quietly, eyes closed as he tried to banish the image from his mind. It didn’t work, of course it didn’t, and he wiped his mouth and made his way back to stand next to Cas, staring down in appalled horror at the sight before them.

“There are so many,” he said, somewhat redundantly. His voice came out as barely a whisper.

Sam stepped forward, trying to breathe through his mouth and not his nose. The stench, oh God the _stench_ … He poked at an arm with the barrel of his gun, hating himself as he did it but knowing that he had to. “They haven’t been dead long,” he said quietly to Cas. “A day or two, I think. Cas, we need to call this in.”

Cas held up the radio he’d had in his hand. “Already done, Sam.”

“He’s been here, recently,” Sam said. “He could still be nearby. Cas, we need to _leave_.”

“If he’s nearby, we could track him down,” suggested Cas. “Finish this now, once and for all.”

“No, we can’t,” Sam contradicted, stepping back out from under the stairs and grabbing Cas’s arm. “Cas, we’re not ready. He’s probably expecting us, and we know from experience how fond of traps the son of a bitch is. We can’t play right into his hands, Cas, it’s what he wants. We will _die._ ”

Cas seemed to consider this, and then he nodded. “Okay, Sam.”

“Thank you,” exhaled Sam in relief. “Okay, let’s get out of here. If I have to spend another minute here I’ll throw up.”

He couldn’t help but glance back over his shoulder as they left, though. All those women, all those unborn children… they’d been people, with hopes and dreams. They’d been waiting to welcome a child into the world only to have that future so brutally snatched from them. And they’d been someone’s _family_. Sam could only hope that Bobby wasn’t going to assign him the task of hunting down the next of kin and delivering the bad news. He couldn’t. He just _couldn’t_.

And all of a sudden, even though it was irrational as hell and made no sense, he was gripped by the urge to call Dean, to hear his voice. To know he was alive. He knew, logically speaking, that Dean was safely ensconced in either his office or his garage, working serenely on fixing whatever car was put in his care, classic rock playing in the background. He _knew_ this, but he couldn’t help it.

He waited until they were back in the car – Cas was driving again, which was probably good because Sam didn’t think he was capable of it at the moment – and then he took his cell phone out of his pocket. Dean was the first number on his speed dial, of course he was, the second being Bobby and the third being Cas. He held the phone to his ear, apprehension growing with every ring that passed by and Dean didn’t pick. Cas watched him, sympathy written clear as day on his face, but also understanding and support, and Sam shot him a strained smile before biting his lower lip, clenching his fists, and waiting for Dean to pick up.

He finally did, on the tenth ring. “Sammy?” He sounded surprised and concerned. “Sorry man, I was under a Buick. Are you all right? Is everything okay?”

“Dean,” exhaled Sam. “ _Dean_.”

“Sammy?” Dean began to sound a little panicked. “Where are you? Do you need me?”

“Dean,” Sam repeated, like a broken record. “Dean, I’m okay, I’m with Cas,” he assured his brother, giving himself a mental shake. “I’m all right. I just… I just needed to hear your voice.”

There was a sigh of relief, and then Dean asked, “What’s going on, Sammy? What’s happening?”

“I—there were so many, Dean,” Sam said, voice shaky with guilt and dull terror and emotion he couldn’t identify. “I couldn’t… I couldn’t save them.”

“Sammy, whatever it is, I’m sure there was nothing you could have done,” Dean told him, voice firm. “Listen to me, kiddo. I know you. You wouldn’t let anyone die, not on your watch. So I know that whatever it was, was out of your hands.”

Sam took in a trembling breath. “Yeah, I know,” he said in a small voice, not caring that he probably didn’t make an ounce of sense to his brother. “I just… I can’t stop seeing them.”

There was a pause, and then Dean took a deep breath. “Put Cas on.”

“What?”

“You heard me, kid. Put Cas on.”

Mutely Sam held the phone out to Cas, who looked surprised, and with good reason – Dean hadn’t talked to him in a very long time. “Hello?” he said uncertainly, putting the phone to his ear.

“Cas, listen to me.” Dean’s voice was brisk and business-like, carrying clear over to Sam. “Sam called me so I’m going to assume you’re at the wheel and not him. Drop him home _now_. Tell Bobby I said so. Understand?”

“Yes, Dean,” said Cas. “For the record, he’s all right, more or less. He’s safe with me.”

Sam winced at Dean’s derisive snort. “Safe with you. Funny.”

“Dean,” Cas began, but Sam snatched the phone back from him.

“Cas and I talked,” he said wearily. “It’s okay.”

“You what?” barked Dean.

“I’ll tell you when I get home,” he promised. “You – you take care, Dean.”

“Always do, little brother,” Dean replied, evidently deciding to let it go for now. “You too, y’hear?”

“Yeah, I will,” Sam said, and then hung up. For once he felt glad for Dean’s mother-hen ways; he really was in no mood to go back to the office. Home felt like a far-off heaven now, someplace he could just sink into bed and sleep away the horror of the day, and then wake to Dean’s teasing and banter.

With a heavy sigh he closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the headrest, not wanting to look out the window or do much of anything at all. Even the sun shining on his face felt muted somehow. He just felt… watered down. Exhausted. And so, so sick to his stomach.

There was a warm, callused touch to the back of his hand, but he couldn’t bring himself to react to it. Seemingly encouraged by the lack of reaction, Cas clasped Sam’s hand in his and squeezed. And it felt like comfort, for once, like safety and warmth. Too tired to fight it or even think about it too much, Sam squeezed back, not opening his eyes, not moving except to give in to the darkness and drifting off.


	6. Chapter Five

**chapter five**

He woke to the sound of the engine dying as Cas turned it off, and then the sensation of those same warm, callused fingers on his shoulder. “Sam?” came Cas’s soft voice. “You’re home.”

Sam opened his eyes and blinked the sleep from them – or, to be accurate, the light doze – and opened his door, stepping out. True to Cas’s word, they were standing in front of the entrance to the building he lived in. Wordlessly he opened the door and stepped out—

—right into Dean.

Dean, who looked concerned and slightly panicked, and suddenly Sam understood what the call must have sounded to his brother. After all, the last time he’d called Dean like this had been when Gabriel had pulled his little prank.

“Sam?” Dean put both his hands on the sides of Sam’s neck, looking worried. “Sammy, are you—?”

“I’m okay,” Sam said quietly, voice a little rusty from sleep. “Honestly. I am. I’m sorry I scared you.”

Dean didn’t stop looking worried. He ran his fingers through Sam’s hair once before letting his hands rest on Sam’s shoulders, and asked, “Is everything okay?” He glanced at Cas as he did so.

“More or less,” Sam replied, knowing Dean meant him and not the case. “I just… God, Dean. I just need to sleep more than five hours for once, I guess.” He uttered a short, tired laugh.

Dean nodded, and squeezed his shoulders once before letting go. “All right, kiddo, let’s get you in bed then.” Then, seemingly remembering Cas’s presence, he turned to him and said, “Thank you. For getting him here.”

Cas nodded in return. “You are welcome, Dean.”

“You talked to Bobby?” asked Sam, resisting the urge to lean on the closest person – his brother – and go to sleep right then and there.

Cas nodded again. “Yeah. We’re both off for today.”

“You as well?” Sam frowned. “What for?”

“I wish to stay with you and make sure you’re okay,” announced Cas.

A stunned silence followed this declaration. Sam and Dean both stared at Cas, who appeared unperturbed. “Sam has had a long day,” he went on. “And I know that you must be busy, Dean. I can stay with him for you.”

“I don’t need babysitting,” Sam began, but Dean silenced him with a hand held up.

“Are you serious?” he asked flatly. “The last time I trusted you to enter our home, you drugged him and left him _crying in a corner_ , or do you not remember?”

“I remember, quite clearly,” Cas replied, his voice slightly raised. “I don’t need the reminder, thank you.”

“So what makes you think I’ll let you near him now?” demanded Dean, his voice going up too.

“Dean,” Sam said tiredly. “Cas and I talked it out. We’re good.”

Dean turned to stare incredulously at Sam. “Sam, this guy _drugged you_ because he thought it would be a good way for him to go about an investigation without interference on your end. And you trust him now?”

“You’re the one who told me that we should be friends again!” protested Sam.

“Yeah, _friends_!” Dean retorted. “Which is _very_ different from letting the guy near you while you sleep, Sam!”

“He’s not going to hurt me,” Sam attempted to assure Dean, who just snorted derisively.

“Yeah, the nightmares and trust issues over the past year really are testament to what a great guy he is.”

“Dean—”

“ _No_ , Sam, I am _not_ letting him inside our home, do you hear?”

“Dean,” Sam repeated, his voice much quieter. “I trust him, Dean.”

Dean stared some more at Sam, and Sam knew what he was thinking. The way they’d grown up ensured that there had been very few people that they had trusted, apart from each other. Their dad. Bobby. Ellen and Jo. A very small circle of other friends.

And that was it. Trust was not a commodity they had in abundance, and therefore they were not prone to throwing it around, giving it to anyone who asked. They’d spent their entire lives being careful about who they let close, and that hadn’t changed in adulthood. Sam had let Cas into that tiny circle, when they’d first been assigned partners on the force and had grown closer due to it. Dean had violently ejected him from the circle when Cas had done what he had.

And now Sam was saying that he trusted Dean again, which to Dean had to mean something. It had to mean that Cas truly had changed. Thanks to their childhood and the aforementioned trust issues, Sam wasn’t quick to let anyone in, especially after they’d already let him down. That he was doing so now meant Dean had no other choice, if only because he trusted Sam’s judgment and nothing else.

So Dean just nodded, a barely imperceptible movement, and said, somewhat petulantly, “Fine. _Fine_. If you say so, kiddo.” Then he turned to Cas again. “Don’t forget that he’s the only reason I haven’t kicked your ass yet.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Cas promised. “Are you going to return to work now?”

Dean snorted. “Fuck no. Like I’m leaving Sam alone with you while he sleeps.”

It was a compromise, though even now Sam wasn’t exactly sure why he needed babysitting. He was a grown man who just needed to sleep, it wasn’t as if he couldn’t do that without an overprotective big brother and an overly concerned colleague – friend – standing watch over him.

Still, he knew to pick his battles, and this was not one he was going to win. With a sigh and a roll of his eyes (the former aimed at Cas and the latter at Dean), he turned to walk inside, already looking forward to sleep and the idea of not having to think anything for a good few hours.

* * *

He woke to the low murmur of voices and a familiar hand on his arm. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he let out a stream of words that he’d meant to be inquiries for the time, but instead came out as garbled speech.

Dean looked faintly amused, sitting in a chair by Sam’s bed with his feet propped up on the mattress near Sam’s hip. “Learn a new language, Sammy?”

Not feeling coherent enough to form a proper response, Sam just stuck out his tongue and then, ignoring Dean’s snort, turned to the other person in the room. “Hey, Cas.”

Cas nodded, not removing his hand from Sam’s arm. “Good evening, Sam.”

“Prince Charming here’s been by your side since the moment you fell asleep,” drawled Dean, poking Sam in the hip with his big toe. “Didn’t even get up to pee.”

“That is incorrect,” Cas said at once, ears and nose dusted with pink. Sam resisted the urge to hide his face in the pillow, even though he could feel his own face going warm.

“Um, thanks,” he muttered, wondering if it was too late to hide his face under his arm. It probably was. “How long have I been out anyway?” he asked, hoping for a change of topic.

“A good eight hours,” Dean replied. “It’s half past one in the morning, kid.”

Sam frowned. “And you two didn’t move for all that time? Or wake me up?”

Dean shrugged. “Had nothing better to do. And nah, you need your rest.”

“I was concerned,” Cas informed him. “About your well-being. It seems to me you overwork yourself and don’t get enough rest, Sam. It’s beginning to affect your health.”

“I’m fine, Cas,” protested Sam. “Really, I am.”

Cas and Dean shared a look – and honestly, after a year of not speaking to each other, it was both relieving and scary – and then turned to Sam. “Sure,” they said simultaneously, and while it was expected from Dean, Sam _really_ regretted the day they’d both told Cas that a little sarcasm could be good for the soul.

He sighed. “What do you guys want from me?” he demanded, perfectly aware that he sounded like a frustrated teenager, and perfectly incapable of giving a shit about it. “I can’t exactly take a vacation from work at this point, can I? Not with friggin’ Alastair on the loose.”

“Not a vacation, no,” Dean said, “but some rest and human work timings would be nice.”

It was Sam’s turn to snort. “Rich, coming from you,” he told Dean. “How many times have you lost track of time, buried under a car?”

“He’s right, Sam,” Cas said. “You need to go easy.”

Sam’s mouth dropped open in outrage. “Are you two _teaming up on me_?” he demanded, looking from his brother to his partner. “Gee, didn’t take you long to be friends again, did it?”

“We talked,” said Dean shortly with another shrug. He poked Sam in the side with his toe, not giving him too much time to wonder exactly _what_ they’d talked about. “You gonna have dinner or what? When was the last time you ate?”

Immediately on cue, Sam’s stomach made an embarrassingly loud rumbling noise. “Yeah, dinner sounds great,” he said, finally kicking the sheets off and getting out of bed, Cas’s hand falling away from his arm as he did so. “Did you cook?”

Dean shook his head. “Nah. Ordered Thai. You hungry, Cas?”

Cas nodded, and Sam tried not to think about the fact that his partner had foregone food, rest and everything else just to keep watch over him while he slept. It was kind of endearing, in a creepy, _I hope I didn’t say something weird in my sleep_ kind of way.

Dean must’ve figured out what Sam was thinking; he snorted and nudged Sam with his elbow, before winking and muttering, “Sammy-boy’s got himself a crush, eh?”

Sam’s response was to pinch the cluster of nerves in Dean’s elbow and look perfectly innocent when Cas turned around to see what Dean was roaring and cursing at.

* * *

 What was supposed to be a rest night turned into a movie night, since Sam had slept too long to be able to do it again that night, and both Dean and Cas declared themselves to be perfectly awake and up for whatever Sam wanted to do. After debating the merits of playing board games (“Dammit, Sam, we _just_ made up with Cas, let’s not disown him so quickly again” and “I am not that great at Monopoly, Dean” followed by “My ass, you’ll kick our asses and look innocent when Sam’s pointing a gun at you and I’m trying to strangle myself with your stupid trenchcoat.” Monopoly was ruled out), Sam decided to just shut the two of them up, and practically shoved _Shawshank Redemption_ into the DVD player.

That led to another discussion (read: argument) about DVD players versus Netflix. Sam tuned out halfway through.

Contrary to his claims of not being tired at all, Dean couldn’t deny his body the sleep it required after long hours fixing cars and then watching over Sam, and ended up slumped sideways over the arm of the couch, snoring. Cas looked like he’d be following soon, as evidenced by the frequent yawning and the efforts to hide it. Still, when Sam inquired he denied it, and instead said, “Sam, are you free this Friday night?”

Sam blinked. “A minute ago we were talking about getting some sleep.”

“And now we’re discussing Friday night plans,” Cas said patiently. “So, are you free?”

“I guess so, yeah,” Sam replied after a moment of thought. “I mean, no plans that I know of. Why?”

Cas looked like he was steeling himself, his face showing a strange mixture of nerves, determination and pink embarrassment. Sam watched him, frowning, wondering why Cas was getting so wound up over plans to hang out or whatever it is he wanted to do. It would make sense – it was the first time in a year that he’d spent so much time with Sam and Dean both, and strangely enough it had not been awkward at all, like they were picking up where they’d left off. Of course he would want to do this again at the closest opportunity.

Except, as it turned out, that was not the case at all.

Sam was just about to ask Cas what was up when his partner blurted out, almost too fast for Sam to catch it, “Would you like to have dinner with me Friday night?”

Sam blinked, taken aback and a little stunned. “I – what?” was his intelligent response.

Cas repeated his question, this time slower and considerably more nervous, as if Sam’s lack of an immediate answer meant he was going to be rejected. “Sam, would you like to have dinner with me Friday night?”

“What, like, like a date?” Sam asked, almost before he could stop himself. Besides them, Dean’s snoring had taken on a different quality, and Sam knew the little shit was actually awake and listening to every word.

Cas nodded, looking extremely uncomfortable. “I suppose so, yes. Like a date. If you don’t mind, that is.”

“No, no I don’t mind,” Sam said, and great, his face was flaming red, he was sure of it. “Yeah, sure, okay. Dinner sounds great.” He smiled warmly at Cas, hoping like hell that the jackhammering of his heart wasn’t actually audible to anyone else. Amazing. One question from his partner could reduce him to a teenager. A-fuckin- _mazing_.

Cas let out a sigh of relief, and then smiled back at Sam, no longer looking nervous. In fact his whole face seemed brighter, especially his eyes, and Sam couldn’t help but smile even wider at the sight. God, he’d missed Cas. It was that much more obvious now, now that Cas had asked him out, had done what they’d both been dancing around for quite a while before the incident. Sam had never before been so glad of Cas’s tendency to be straightforward than he was now.

“I’ll pick you up,” Cas said. “At seven o’clock.”

Those were the magic words, apparently – Dean sprang up from where he’d been pretending to sleep, pointing an accusatory finger at Cas as he said, “You are _not_ driving, do you hear? I do not want my brother dead. Sam’s driving.”

Cas, who’d jumped violently at Dean’s sudden movement, narrowed his eyes at him. “You were _listening_?” he asked in disbelief.

“Of course I was,” dismissed Dean with an airy wave of his hand. “What kind of big brother would I be if I didn’t cockblock you guys every chance I got?”

Sam buried his face in his hands. “Oh God kill me now,” he moaned. “Forget the stupid case. I want to _die_.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” snorted Dean. “It’s not like you haven’t overheard me propositioning women before.”

Sam removed his hands from his face to gape in disbelief at Dean. “You were propositioning them _during sex in the next room_ while I did my homework! The walls were paper-thin, okay!”

“Whatever,” was Dean’s answer, as he refused to be called out. “Anyway, my point still stands. Sam’s driving.”

“It’s a surprise where I’m taking him,” Cas protested. “I don’t want to ruin it.”

“And I don’t want my brother to die,” retorted Dean, crossing his arms obstinately.

“You’re doing a great job of it,” muttered Sam, and dodged out of reach when Dean attempted to take a swipe at him.

A three-way staring match ensued – Sam and Cas stared Dean down until he rolled his eyes and muttered, “What _ever_. I’m going to bed. Tomorrow I’ll look into whether or not Sammy’s life insurance covers manslaughter by car crash. If I have to agree to this, at least I should be compensated.”

He rose to leave, still grumbling. “Love you too, Dean!” Sam called out sarcastically at his retreating back. Dean flipped him off, and then shut his bedroom door behind him.

Cas waited until he was quite sure Dean would have no chance of eavesdropping, and then turned to Sam. “So, seven o’clock Friday night?” he asked hopefully, as if Sam might have changed his mind at some point during Dean’s bitching.

“Seven o’clock Friday night,” Sam confirmed with a small smile. “Uh, is it like a black tie thing?”

“No, you can dress casually,” Cas told him. “I look forward to it.”

Per-fucking-fect, Sam was blushing again. Cursing his nervous system for allowing his capillaries to dilate so easily, he said, “Uh, yeah. Me too.”

Cas smiled as well. “Okay then.” He stood. “I should leave now, I’m beginning to feel sleepy.”

“Your place is too far to drive to at this time of night,” Sam said. “Why don’t you stay? I could set up the couch for you.” He’d have offered Cas his room and slept on the couch himself, but unfortunately he was much too tall for it and having a crick in his neck was going to seriously crimp his fighting style whenever they faced down Alastair.

Cas considered it. “I don’t want to be any trouble—” he began, but Sam cut him off.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Cas, it’s no trouble at all.”

“Okay then,” decided Cas. “Thank you.”

So Sam set up the couch for him, bringing extra blankets and a pillow from the closet in the hallway and making sure they weren’t dusty or stale from lack of use. He offered one of his shirts to Cas to sleep on, but Cas politely declined, face red, and Sam didn’t push it. He waited till Cas was settled in before wishing him goodnight and retreating to his room.

He didn’t sleep, though; instead he spent the remainder of the night lying on top of the covers and staring up at the ceiling, unable to keep a ridiculously wide yet soft smile off his face.

* * *

Dean was making pancakes the next morning while Sam and Cas sat at the small table in the kitchen, neither of them particularly coherent before coffee. Dean was humming cheerily under his breath, some old classic that Sam couldn’t place right now, and was almost definitely doing it to annoy his brother and his friend. There could be no other reason for the overly bright grin on his face. Perhaps it was some kind of revenge for Cas refusing to let Sam drive.

“Dean,” Sam finally uttered in a tone that he would swear to his dying day wasn’t whiny. “Why are you so—so _happy_?”

Dean just hummed louder. Cas groaned and dropped his head in his arms, and Sam got up to start the coffeemaker, taking great care to “accidentally” elbow Dean in the kidney on his way there.

“Asshole,” Dean muttered, before loudly singing, “ _OH PILOT OF THE STORM THAT LEAVES NO TRACE, LIKE THOUGHTS INSIDE A DREEEEAAAAM_ —”

He was cut off by the shrill tone of Sam’s phone, from where it was resting on the small table. Cas raised his head from his arms just long enough to take a look. “It’s Chief Singer,” he told Sam, handing it to him.

Sam frowned, accepting the phone. “What is it that can’t wait another hour?” he wondered, before sliding his finger across the screen and putting it to his ear. “Yeah, Bobby?”

“Get your ass down here,” Bobby growled, foregoing any greeting. “And get Cas too. _Now_.”

“What is it—” began Sam, but Bobby had already hung up. He turned to Cas. “We’ve got to go, he wants us there right now.”

“Did he say why?” asked Cas, a frown on his face to match Sam’s.

“Nope,” Sam replied. “I’m guessing we’ll find out anyway.” He began moving out of the kitchen, Cas on his heels.

“But pancakes!” Dean called.

“Sorry, Dean!” Sam called back as he rushed into his room to get dressed while Cas went to the bathroom. “Guess we’ll have to have ‘em another time!”

“Aw man,” Dean complained, but then cheered up immediately. “Oh well, more for me.”

“Someday you’ll get fat,” Sam told him as he tried to put on his socks and shoes while hopping across the living room, half the buttons on his shirt undone and his hair a mess. “Between the takeout and the beer and the pancakes, you’ll have a belly soon and then we’ll have to get you new clothes.”

“Fuck off, Sammy, it ain’t happening,” retorted Dean, piling syrup on the pancakes, perfectly unconcerned that two extremely harried detectives were zipping about his apartment in a colossal hurry.

“You keep telling yourself that,” Sam said, finishing with his socks and shoes and attempting to tame his hair into something presentable that wouldn’t have Bobby coming at him with a pair of shears. “But one day nothing will fit and you’ll have to go to work in slacks. _Slacks_.”

Dean opened his mouth to retort, but whatever it was died on his lips when he took one look at his brother. “For the love of fuck, Sam,” he muttered, getting up and moving towards Sam. “You look like a fuckin’ hobo.”

Sam stilled as Dean began buttoning up his shirt properly before releasing it to let Sam tuck it into his pants. Then he summoned a comb out of seemingly nowhere (and Sam finally discovered the comb he’d lost a couple of months ago) and proceeded to smooth Sam’s hair out, before handing the comb and a hair tie to him. “C’mon. Before Bobby decides that a buzz cut would look great on you.”

Sam grimaced at the thought, pulling his hair back into a messy bun which made Dean shake his head in resignation, like he was giving up on trying to get Sam to keep his hair in order. Cas chose that moment to emerge from the bathroom, fully dressed. “Let’s go?” he said to Sam, who nodded.

“Yeah.” He clapped Dean on the shoulder. “See you later, yeah?”

“Sure,” Dean said, returning to his pancakes. “I’ll cook for tonight. Spaghetti, I’m thinking. Cas can come too.”

“Sounds great,” said Sam with a smile. It wasn’t total acceptance but it was something, and right now he would take what he could get.

None of them knew that no one would be having the spaghetti that night.


	7. Chapter Six

**chapter six**

They went straight to Bobby’s office, not even stopping by their desks. Neither of them had had any breakfast or even coffee, but were too curious to feel cranky about it. Bobby was not at his desk; instead he was pacing up and down, muttering under his break. His chair was in a corner again, and there was a mess of papers on the floor that had likely been swept off the table in a fit of temper.

“You’re gonna wear a path into the carpet if you don’t stop with the pacing,” Sam said, opening the door for Cas to come in after him before letting it swing shut.

Bobby jerked his head up to scowl at both of them. “Sit,” he barked at them, gesturing towards the chairs in front of his desk.

Neither of them obeyed. “Bobby, what is it?” asked Sam, a lot more seriously. The older man’s face was lined much more than it had ever been, plus he had dark circles. His breath stank of whiskey, even though he looked completely sober, and very sorry to be so. His clothes were rumpled and smelled faintly of stale sweat, a scent that had Cas wrinkling his nose almost involuntarily.

“There’ve been nine more,” Bobby replied, uncharacteristically quiet. “One of them was a friend of Tran’s. Kid’s distraught. Bradbury’s trying to help him, but it ain’t workin’. Sam, this guy ain’t just a murderer anymore or just your run-o’-the-mill serial killer. He’s gettin’ into the big leagues. Probably woulda made fuckin’ Dahmer proud. We’ve got to do somethin’, and we’ve got to do it _soon_.”

“What can we do?” asked Cas somberly.

Bobby found his chair and sat in it, not giving a fuck that it was nowhere near his desk. “I don’t know,” he said, and Sam _hated_ how defeated he sounded. “I just don’t fuckin’ know.”

“Bobby,” Sam tried again, but he didn’t know what to say beyond that. Bobby was always, _always_ reliable, always there to save Sam and Dean’s asses, to tell them to get their shit together. Bobby couldn’t be defeated, he was _unbeatable_.

Surprisingly, it was Cas who spoke first. “We’ll fix this, Chief,” he promised. “You’ll see.” He didn’t say it as mere words of consolation; he said it like a determined promise, like retribution falling from the sky in a rain of scarlet.

He said it like he meant it.

Sam’s jaw tightened. “He’s right,” he said, his voice quiet with an undercurrent of fury, because _Bobby was unbeatable_ and if he ever had to see his surrogate father like that again he would kill something, no joke. “We’re gonna nail that son of a bitch, Bobby. Just you see.”

But Bobby didn’t look reassured, not at all. “I don’t know, Sam,” he sighed. “’Cause to me it looks like the son of a bitch is nailin’ _us_ instead o’ the other way ‘round.”

“Does the media know?” Sam asked quietly.

“’Course they do,” Bobby replied. He didn’t snap, which would have been preferable to the tired tone that he seemed to have adopted. It looked like all the fight had left him, and Sam _hated loathed **despised** _ it. It wasn’t natural, it didn’t fit in with the way the world should be, and he could feel the slight taste of bile in the back of his throat. It wasn’t _right_.

“They want my head for it,” Bobby continued wearily, and Sam’s fingers curled into fists. “Callin’ me all kinda shit, sayin’ I should resign. Hell, I ain’t that sure they ain’t right.”

“ _No_.” Sam didn’t shout, but it was a close thing. “They’re wrong, Bobby, you hear me? You don’t get to give up on us _now_ , old man, you don’t get to do this to me!” Now he _was_ shouting but he didn’t really care. Apparently neither did Cas – his partner made no move to stop him. “Bobby, this is _fixable_ , it’s not the end of the world!”

“Then fix it!” snapped Bobby. “Then fuckin’ fix it, Sam, if you think it’s that easy!”

“I never said it would be easy!” retorted Sam. “Fucking hell, Bobby, what choice do we have? He’s killing people left and right, we’ve _got_ to do something! Maybe _you_ think it’s hopeless but I can’t let him win that easy!”

Without waiting to see Bobby’s response he turned on his heel and stormed out of the office. A _swish_ and subsequent footsteps told him Cas was right behind him, leaving Bobby standing shell-shocked in his office. Sam had never spoken to him like that, and he did feel guilty, but _shit_. It was already a fucked up situation without Bobby having to lose hope. Bobby not having any faith meant that Sam couldn’t have any, and he was _not_ okay with that.

“Sam,” said Cas quietly when they’d reached Sam’s desk.

“I know, I know,” Sam sighed, turning to face him. “I shouldn’t have yelled. But, hell, Cas, we can’t give up now. We _can’t_.”

“No one’s giving up,” Cas assured him. “In fact, I have a plan.”

Sam sighed and rubbed his temples. There were a few strands of soft brown hair hanging loose from his bun, but he couldn’t find it within himself to care. “I’m listening, Cas.” Anything had to be better than what they had – which was a fat load of bupkis.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later they were in their cruiser. Sam was in the driver’s seat this time, Cas beside him, both of them tense and silent. Until Cas said, “Let’s do this.” His tone was firm, determined.

Sam nodded. “Yeah,” was all he said, before backing the car out onto the road and putting the pedal to the metal.

They made the normal hour-long drive to Alastair’s house in forty minutes. The car had barely braked to a stop when both of them flung themselves out, hitting the ground running, guns at the ready. It was a stupid plan, dangerous, really, to come in here without any backup, but it was the only one they had and dammit, it was better than nothing.

Sam kicked the door open. Shits about subtlety and stealth he simply did not give. “Alastair, you bastard, I know you’re in here!” he yelled, his voice echoing eerily in the dusty silence of the house. “Come out, come out wherever you are!” Fury lent a mocking tone to the words, the parody of a children’s game that they were now playing with a serial killer.

“He’s here, he has to be,” Cas said to Sam, voice considerably lower. “He has a thing for stashing his victims here.”

“What if he’s not, though?” wondered Sam as they once again made their way room by room through the first floor, a sick sense of déjà vu settling in his stomach. “What if he’s not done killing?”

“I doubt it,” Cas said. “Just a hunch,” he added in reply when Sam looked at him askance.

They’d only just made it to the space under the stairs when a gunshot rang out, cutting the air in half. It was almost deafening in the stillness of the house, and both Sam and Cas jumped.

“He’s here, all right,” Cas muttered, regaining some of his composure and heading towards the source of the gunshot – from upstairs, it seemed. “Come on, Sam.”

But Sam didn’t follow. The twist in his gut earlier suddenly made sense, as did the urge he’d had to call Dean. He wasn’t sure if he believed in fate, or that the universe left clues or foreshadowed your destiny or whatever, but he sure as hell believed in pain, and blood, and the sharp punch of a bullet embedding itself in your guts.

Wordlessly, soundlessly, he fell to his knees and then sideways, his hand coming up to his stomach of its own accord, muscle memory at work as he tried to stem the flow of blood. It didn’t happen, of course it didn’t happen, and shit shit _shit_ he was going to _die_.

There was an impatient “Sam!” from somewhere above him that seemed to reach him through a haze of scarlet pain, and then another “SAM!” -- this one panicked. So Cas had realized that Sam was hurt, then. The other detective’s gun arm had dropped to his side and he was taking rapid steps back towards Sam, his face bone-white and lips pressed together.

“No, no, no, Sam—”

Sam didn’t pay him much attention, instead looking down at himself. The white of his shirt was soaking up his blood rapidly, darkening to crimson and then saturated maroon as he pressed his hand to his abdomen in a vain attempt to stem the flow of blood. He knew it was a useless endeavor, had known it the minute he got shot, and the fact was driven home by the blood dribbling out over his fingers and showing no signs of slowing down. At this rate he’d be dead in minutes.


	8. Chapter Seven

**chapter seven**

Sam is dying, he is _dying_ and it is killing Cas to leave him now, but he has no choice. Sam’s right, just like he always is – that if Alastair gets away now, all of this will go to waste and more people will die. Sam is so stupid, so selfless… he’d rather lose his own life if it meant saving others’. Thinks so little of his own life. Cas would love to see Dean’s face if he knew this, but now is not the time.

He races up the stairs, not caring anymore about stealth – not that there had been a lot of it anyway, thanks to Sam kicking in the door. He can hear Alastair, can hear mad cackling echoing through the second floor, but he can’t pinpoint which room it’s coming from. All the doors are ajar, and he knows any single one of them could be a trap. He doesn’t care.

Not for the first time, though, he wishes that he and Sam hadn’t decided to do this unsanctioned. They’d left their radios behind so no one would bother them – stupid, _stupid_ , because now Sam is bleeding out and there is no way to get help short of using cell phones… which they also did not bring.

A _crash_ reverberates throughout the house and Cas focuses, deciding to leave the guilt and regret for later. They have Alastair now – if he tries to run he will die, and it seems like Alastair knows it too.

And just doesn’t care.

Cas doesn’t pretend to know how a madman’s mind works, but what he _does_ know is that madness is unpredictable. And unpredictable usually means that someone is going to get hurt, and it isn’t going to be the insane person. Still, he soldiers on, checking room after room till he gets to the last one, ignoring the cackling and the dust and the eerie way early-morning sunlight filters through the gaps in the roof, highlighting dust motes and other tiny debris.

“Knew you’d come.”

Alastair is standing at the end of the hallway, in front of a broken window, his lips stretched wide in a terrifying rictus of an insane grin, showing stained teeth. His clothes and skin are colored dark brown, and with a sickening jolt Cas realizes it’s dried blood. From the killing spree he’s indulged in most recently. He resists the urge to allow his lunch an encore appearance, and instead aims at Alastair.

Alastair, like all good homicidal maniacs, is by no means unarmed, and he proves as much by raising his own gun and pointing it at Cas. A Mexican standoff, as Dean said sometimes when the three of them used to spend Friday nights together, watching old movies. Neither one of them is getting out of here unscathed, that much is for sure.

Alastair voices as much, the mad dog grin still in place. “You’re not leaving here except in buckets,” he promises. Cas’s finger tightens infinitesimally on the trigger, but he doesn’t shoot. Knows better. Alastair will shoot too, and Cas will be of no help to anyone with a hole in his chest.

But he does walk forward, taking small steps, gun before him. Alastair lets him, looking amused. Like it’s all just a _game_.

“Why?” asks Cas, not surprised at how rough his voice is with restrained fury. “Why did you do it?”

“Why not?” shrugs Alastair, still grinning creepily. “It was fun. Oh, so much fun. And each and every _bitch_ I killed, they all had _her_ face, and that just made it so much better.”

“Whose face?” demands Cas. He has only just managed to traverse half the hallway.

“My stupid bitch of a wife,” Alastair spits, and now the grin mutates into a look that can only be described as pure evil. “Sure, it was fun in the beginning. She was so damn easy to manipulate. She honestly thought I _loved_ her.” He spits again, on the floor by his feet. All this time his gun does not waver. Neither does Cas’s. “I mean, I even let her marry me, I thought it would be all the more fun when I killed her.” His face darkens even more. “And then she tells me she’s pregnant.

“So of course I was angry. Babies ruin everything, don’t they? But then I thought to myself, this doesn’t have to be a bad thing. Maybe it’ll even make her that much more fun to finally kill.” The rabid grin is back. “And I was _right_ , it was _glorious_. Not that much different from a religious experience, actually. She never even got the chance to so much as scream.”

“You _bastard_ ,” Cas swears, unable to help himself. He feels sick to his stomach. He’s not usually given to outbursts of profanity, but now he’s unable to help himself. This isn’t a man he’s facing. This is a _monster_ , a rabid dog, and he needs to be put down. He needs to _die._ No court trial for one such as him, no extra days of life, no chance he might escape or be let off. Death is the only cure for his madness.

“Hey now, don’t be so judgmental,” says Alastair lightly. “Thing is, it’s an addiction – I couldn’t do it just the once. I _had_ to do it again, get a taste of that adrenaline, that _rush_.” He smacked his lips. “So heady. So _sweet_. Just like blood. Tell me, have you ever tasted blood?”

Cas is no more than twenty steps away from Alastair now. He knows that if he gets close enough he’ll be shot, but he also knows that knives travel faster than guns at a distance this small, and he has got a knife all right. And every intention of using it.

“I know you have a knife,” Alastair says lazily, and Cas freezes. “Of course you do,” chuckles the monster. “Did you think I’m stupid? Honestly, I’m insulted. Why else would be trying so hard to get close to me? I know it can’t be my charming personality.” He grins again, the smug smile of a predator who knows he’s about to get his prey, and Cas _knows_ he is going to die here, in this house, just like Sam, just like countless others.

All because he thought he could come up with a plan to end this. Hubris is a fatal thing, isn’t it?

Just like he had been getting closer, Alastair too is walking towards, until they are both face to face, guns aimed at each other, a bare foot of space between them. Cas can smell his rank breath and again, has to resist the urge to gag. It’s not easy, not easy at all, especially when he realizes that the stains on Alastair’s teeth? They’re blood. Human blood.

“If I die,” he snarls, “I’m taking you with me.”

Alastair snorts. “Sure you are.” He cocks his gun, presses it to Cas’s forehead just as Cas does the same to him. “Any last words? Maybe I can pass them on to your boyfriend downstairs when I kill him.”

“Good fuckin’ luck with that,” comes a strained but furious voice from behind Cas. This is the perfect moment, the perfect time, and Cas knows what’s going to happen almost before it does—

Sam screams “DUCK!” and Cas obeys instinctively, whirling out of the pathway of Alastair’s gun just as the monster gets over his surprise at seeing Sam alive, much less capable of climbing a flight of stairs and staying upright with a gunshot wound in his abdomen. He fires just as Cas tackles him, and the bullet goes upwards, harmlessly embedding itself into the damaged roof. Without waiting for anything Cas pulls out his knife and jams it just under Alastair’s knee, eliciting a howl of pain. The monster staggers, but before he can regain his balance there is another gunshot, and he collapses.

Cas looks down at himself, fully expecting to see blood, but remarkably he is unharmed. The same cannot be said for either Sam, who looks death-pale, or Alastair, who is on the ground howling with a bullet in his thigh. Howling. Alive.

“Sam,” Cas begins, voice a growl, but Sam cuts across him.

“Can’t kill the bastard,” he says, words slurring a little from the blood loss. “He can go to trial. Won’t get off. Will save Bobby’s skin.”

“Right,” Cas says, blinking. The thought hadn’t even occurred to him, but of course it did to Sam. Selfless, brave Sam, who always puts others before himself.

Selfless, brave Sam chooses that moment to collapse, his lips and hands dripping blood to the wooden floor. Cas has no idea how Sam managed to grip his gun and aim it so perfectly, what with his blood-slick hands, but he doesn’t particularly care right now. All he can see is Sam, bleeding out, appearing half-dead already—

“Cas, look out!” Sam yells hoarsely, clutching his stomach as he lists sideways, and Cas moves out of the way so that Alastair’s hand, with Cas’s knife in it, just misses him by a bare few inches.

“Oh no you don’t,” he growls, and slams the butt of his gun into Alastair’s head. The man twitches and goes still, Cas’s knife falling out of his fingers. There is a large gash in his knee, denoting where the knife had been a few moments ago.

Cas handcuffs him even though he’s quite thoroughly unconscious, before making his way to Sam. “Hey,” he says, voice much softer now as he tries to lift his partner, eliciting a strangled yell of pain. “It’s okay, Sam, I’ve got you. You’re going to be okay.”

“You’re a shitty liar,” Sam tells him, grinning, his eyes drooping. “Oh God,” he groans a moment later, as Cas is trying to get him to move towards the staircase. “Dean’s gon’ kill me.”

“I think that’s the least of your worries right now,” Cas says gently. “I’m sorry, Sam, I know this is hurting you, but we have to _hurry_ , you need help and you need it now.”

“Dun’ worry.” Sam holds up his cellphone - which Cas didn't know Sam brought - imprinted with bloody fingerprints on the screen. “I took care o’ it. They should be here soon. Bobby an’ – an’ the others.”

A loud siren the next moment confirms Sam’s words, and Cas actually lets out a relieved shout, before yelling, “Up here! We’re up here! Sam’s hurt – _hurry_!”

Then he can do nothing but stand by and watch helplessly as Sam is taken from him and off, far away where Cas can’t follow. At least, not for the moment.

But it’s okay. Sam will be okay. He _has_ to be.


	9. Epilogue

**epilogue**

Sam comes to slowly, his eyes struggling to open. There’s something in his nose that’s interfering with his ability to breath, and also irritating his throat like nothing else. There’s also a beeping sound that makes Sam want to just go back to sleep, God, why is the world so _annoying_?

But then there’s a rough voice full of barely held back tears – “ _Sammy_ ” – and a hand covering his, and Sam would know that voice anywhere, would do anything to come back to it.

There’s another hand, belonging to someone else, on his forehead, and another voice says, sounding just as wrecked, “Sam, are you awake?”

What he means to do is open his eyes and crack a joke at his brother and partner, and what he actually does is begin coughing and gagging violently, choking on whatever dumb fucking tube has been shoved down his nose – seriously, what the _hell_ —

There is a panicked shout of “Sammy!” and more beeping, and a few agonizing moments later he hears the door thud open and feels more hands on him. Then he promptly slips away, unable to take it any longer.

The second time he wakes up there’s no tube, which makes breathing a lot easier, and also has the added advantage of him not terrifying his family when he tries to wake up. This time he does what he intended to do earlier. He opens his eyes, takes in Dean’s tearful eyes and Cas’s terrified expression, and says, “What year is it?”

Well, that’s what he _means_ to say, at any rate. What actually comes out is, “Whayeeeaaa—?”

“Oh God,” chokes out Dean, before all but throwing himself at Sam. “Sam, you—you _fucking idiot_ ,” he snarls, pulling back a second later and aggressively swiping at his eyes. “What the _fuck_ were you thinking, going in there without backup, it’s like you have a fucking _death wish_ , oh my God Sam I am so going to fucking _kill_ you, you little shit, I swear it.”

But throughout it all he never lets go of Sam’s hand. Sam smiles tiredly up at him. “You look like crap,” he says.

“So do you,” replies Dean with a wet snort.

“I don’t feel like it, though,” Sam slurs in response. “I feel… _good_.”

“That’ll be the painkillers they have you on,” Cas tells him, trying to smile and just looking constipated. Still, it’s the effort that counts, isn’t it? And well. He stills looks hella fine to Sam.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

Shit. He’d just said that out loud, hadn’t he?”

“Yes, you did,” confirms Cas, blushing and smiling at the same time. Dean just looks torn between amusement and annoyance.

Sam grins loopily at Cas. “How you?” he asks, rather eloquently.

“Amazing,” Dean remarks. “It only took painkillers to turn him into a Neanderthal.”

“Tha’s a long word,” Sam comments to his brother, surprised. He knows Dean is smart, but his brother had never really shown any inclination towards theories of evolution and all that stuff. His smarts are normally applied to cars.

Dean snorts again, and clutches Sam’s hand tighter. “I hate you,” he says, his soft smile contradictory to his words. “So much.”

“I know.” Sam may be high as hell but the words register just the same. He squeezes Dean’s hand. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, you better be,” Dean says, scowling. “Jesus Sam, do you know what it’s like to get a call at work that your brother’s been shot? Your only family in the entire fucking world? Fuck, Sam—” He stops abruptly.

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Sam mutters.

“He did not, I was there and I can confirm,” Cas says solemnly.

“Fuck no.” Dean narrows his eyes at both of them. “You are _not_ tag-teaming me. And Sam? Quit it with the sad eyes, they ain’t gonna work this time.”

“I’m not doing sad eyes,” protested Sam.

“You _are_ ,” Dean accused. “Oh, just you wait till Bobby gets here, he’s going to _skin_ you, and I’m not even going to try to stop him. Just you see.”

“Liar,” Sam says, grinning at Dean.

And just like that, all the bluster leaves Dean. Shoulders slumping, he leans forward in his chair to press Sam’s hand between both of his and touch it to his lips. “Sam, I swear to God… don’t do this to me again. I’ll fucking _die_ if anything happens to you, Sam, you know I will. Please, fucking _please_ , baby brother, don’t do this to me.”

Sam bites his bottom lip, a tear slipping down the side of his face into his hair. “I’m sorry, Dean,” he whispers, and he is, he really is. Never mind that he couldn’t have stopped it happening in any way. Seeing Dean like this… it feels a thousand times worse than any bullet.

“I know,” Dean whispers back, lips moving against Sam’s knuckles. “I know, kiddo. I know.” It’s as close to acceptance that he’s going to get from Dean, but it means the world to him.

Dean smiles, a real one this time, before laying Sam’s hand by his side and getting to his feet. He kisses Sam on the forehead, pushing away stray strands of hair to do so. “Get well soon, kiddo. Because if you don’t I will kick your ass.”

Sam blinks at him, surprised. “Where you goin’?”

“Giving you two some privacy,” Dean replies pointedly, and _oh_. Sam’s almost forgotten Cas is here, which is absolutely shitty because they’re not even boyfriends yet but he’s already forgetting things.

“You said that out loud,” Cas tells him in a resigned voice. “And no, it’s not your fault. You’re high and you were preoccupied.”

“It won’t happen again,” Sam promises solemnly.

Cas smiles a little, and takes Sam’s other hand, taking care not to disturb the IV. “You know you’re a hero,” he tells him softly.

“I’m really not,” protests Sam, but Cas cuts him off.

“You _are_. And I’m not the only one who thinks so, the entire department agrees with me. Even Chief Singer, though don’t assume this means he will spare you your, ah, ass-kicking.”

Sam groans. “Crap. No way outta that, is there?”

“Afraid not, Sam,” Cas says gravely.

“When am I getting outta here?” Sam asks. “’Cause we gotta have dinner Friday night.”

“That can wait, Sam,” Cas says with a smile, patting Sam’s hand carefully. “And I think they’re going to keep you here for a few days. It’s okay,” he adds hastily. “Dean and I will be with you all the time. Well, Dean, mostly. He’s family and all that.”

Sam is quiet for a few moments, and then he says, “You’re family too, Cas.”

There is another silence, and then Cas says, “Thank you, Sam. It means more to me than I can tell you.” And then he’s leaning over and pressing a soft, chaste kiss to Sam’s lips, and _oh_. Sam feels like his brain just short-circuited.

“You said that out loud too.” Now Cas just sounds amused.

Sam narrows his eyes at him. “You’re enjoying this,” he accuses.

“Just a little,” Cas replies with a quirk of his lips, and leans in to kiss Sam again.

Because, when it comes down to it, this is _it_. This is what escapes people like Alastair, what they simply can’t understand. This is love, in its purest form. Love isn’t a game, it isn’t lies and manipulation or whatever the hell that fucking monster did to his wife. Love is Dean looking out for Sam and making his favorite food and watching movies with him late into the night and tucking him in even though they’re adults, and kissing his forehead when he thinks he can get away with it (he always can); love is Bobby watching out for them all in his own gruff manner, with his half-hearted threats that never could mask his true emotions; love is Sam forcing himself up a flight of stairs just so he can have Cas’s back, even if he has a bullet in his abdomen; and love is Cas’s lips on his, his warm hands on Sam’s skin, the caress he leaves behind when he finally parts so that he won’t exhaust Sam too much.

It doesn’t matter that the only people Sam can say are his are Dean, Cas and Bobby. It doesn’t matter that they don’t have the cleanest of histories. What matters is that they’re there for him and they love him, and he loves them back with everything he has. What matters is that even though he’s been hurt and wronged in the past, he’s moved past it, has learned to let it go. What matters is that he has a _future_ with the people he loves, one that he is never going to let slip from his fingers.

**end.**

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback, now that you've gotten this far, would be absolutely _lovely_. Leave your comments below and tell us what you think!
> 
> Lots and lots of love,  
> iamremy, juniperraso


End file.
